| |
| LEAVE me a little while alone, | |
| Here at his grave that still is strown | |
| With crumbling flower and wreath; | |
| The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, | |
| The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, | 5 |
| And he lies hush’d beneath. | |
| |
| With myrtle cross and crown of rose, | |
| And every lowlier flower that blows, | |
| His new-made couch is dress’d; | |
| Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild, | 10 |
| Gather’d by monarch, peasant, child, | |
| A nation’s grief attest. | |
| |
| I stood not with the mournful crowd | |
| That hither came when round his shroud | |
| Pious farewells were said. | 15 |
| In the fam’d city that he sav’d, | |
| By minaret crown’d, by billow lav’d, | |
| I heard that he was dead. | |
| |
| Now o’er his tomb at last I bend, | |
| No greeting get, no greeting tend, | 20 |
| Who never came before | |
| Unto his presence, but I took, | |
| From word or gesture, tone or look, | |
| Some wisdom from his door. | |
| |
| And must I now unanswer’d wait, | 25 |
| And, though a suppliant at the gate, | |
| No sound my ears rejoice? | |
| Listen! Yes, even as I stand, | |
| I feel the pressure of his hand, | |
| The comfort of his voice. | 30 |
| |
| How poor were Fame, did grief confess | |
| That death can make a great life less, | |
| Or end the help it gave! | |
| Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane, | |
| But his well-ripen’d deeds remain, | 35 |
| Untouch’d, above his grave. | |
| |
| Let this, too, soothe our widow’d minds; | |
| Silenced are the opprobrious winds | |
| Whene’er the sun goes down; | |
| And free henceforth from noonday noise, | 40 |
| He at a tranquil height enjoys | |
| The starlight of renown. | |
| |
| Thus hence we something more may take | |
| Than sterile grief, than formless ache, | |
| Or vainly utter’d vow; | 45 |
| Death hath bestow’d what life withheld | |
| And he round whom detraction swell’d | |
| Hath peace with honor now. | |
| |
| The open jeer, the covert taunt, | |
| The falsehood coin’d in factious haunt, | 50 |
| These loving gifts reprove. | |
| They never were but thwarted sound | |
| Of ebbing waves that bluster round | |
| A rock that will not move. | |
| |
| And now the idle roar rolls off, | 55 |
| Hush’d is the gibe and sham’d the scoff, | |
| Repress’d the envious gird; | |
| Since death, the looking-glass of life, | |
| Clear’d of the misty breath of strife, | |
| Reflects his face unblurr’d. | 60 |
| |
| From callow youth to mellow age, | |
| Men turn the leaf and scan the page, | |
| And note, with smart of loss, | |
| How wit to wisdom did mature, | |
| How duty burn’d ambition pure, | 65 |
| And purged away the dross. | |
| |
| Youth is self-love; our manhood lends | |
| Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends, | |
| So that when age steals nigh, | |
| How few find any worthier aim | 70 |
| Than to protract a flickering flame, | |
| Whose oil hath long run dry! | |
| |
| But he, unwitting youth once flown, | |
| With England’s greatness link’d his own, | |
| And, steadfast to that part, | 75 |
| Held praise and blame but fitful sound, | |
| And in the love of country found | |
| Full solace for his heart. | |
| |
| Now in an English grave he lies: | |
| With flowers that tell of English skies | 80 |
| And mind of English air, | |
| A grateful sovereign decks his bed, | |
| And hither long with pilgrim tread | |
| Will English feet repair. | |
| |
| Yet not beside his grave alone | 85 |
| We seek the glance, the touch, the tone; | |
| His home is nigh,—but there, | |
| See from the hearth his figure fled, | |
| The pen unrais’d, the page unread, | |
| Untenanted the chair! | 90 |
| |
| Vainly the beechen boughs have made | |
| A fresh green canopy of shade, | |
| Vainly the peacocks stray; | |
| While Carlo, with despondent gait, | |
| Wonders how long affairs of State | 95 |
| Will keep his lord away. | |
| |
| Here most we miss the guide, the friend; | |
| Back to the churchyard let me wend, | |
| And, by the posied mound, | |
| Lingering where late stood worthier feet, | 100 |
| Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet, | |
| A loftier dirge would sound. | |
| |
| At least I bring not tardy flowers: | |
| Votive to him life’s budding powers, | |
| Such as they were, I gave— | 105 |
| He not rejecting, so I may | |
| Perhaps these poor faint spices lay, | |
| Unchidden, on his grave! | |
| |
