Roderic Quinn

No more will Rod his lyrics sing,
   As tuneful as the thrush when Spring
With minstrel voice is calling;
   As joyous as the gentle chime
Of bellbirds in the Summertime
   From sylvan spires down-falling.

The harp is mute from which he drew
   The magic of a music new
Of woods and golden beaches;
   Its silent strings tell ne'er again
Enraptured tales of hill and plain
   And gleaming river reaches.
   
But this fair land shall ever be
   Indebted to his minstrelsy,
So, written on the portal
   Of Art's proud temple, will his name
Go down forevermore in fame
   Untarnished and immortal.