With what rapture did we hear
The strains produced by thy bow,
Now thou art silent—where shall we
E’er hear such sweetness—never now.
The poet and the painter leave
But thou, dear Coward, hast not left
Thy mantle,—nought of thee is seen.
‘Tis only in our memory
We still retain our thoughts of thee,
And of thy pleasureable art,
Thy matchless moving melody.
Alnwick, September, 29th, 1854
There’s more on Thomas Coward <here>