The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed With not the less of sorrow and of awe With name no clearer than the names unknown, The Gardener of that ground, why it might be That for this plant strangers his memory tasked Through the thick deaths of half a century; And thus he answered "Well, I do not know Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; And I had not the digging of this grave." The veil of Immortality? and crave I know not what of honor and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? So soon, and so successless? As I said, The Architect of all on which we tread, For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, Were it not that all life must end in one, Of which we are but dreamers; - as he caught attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth; of whom there can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as defects, of his style; and it ought to be remembered, that, in such things, whether there be praise or dispraise, there is always what is called a compliment, however unintentional." | Thus spoke he, "I believe the man of whom You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, Was a most famous writer in his day, And therefore travellers step from out their way To pay him honor, and myself whate'er Your honor pleases," shook* - then most pleased I From out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were In which there was Obscurity and Fame, - Diodati, 1816. [Originally "then most pleased, I shook My inmost pocket's most retired nook, [The grave of Churchill might have called from Lord Byron a deeper commemoration; for, though they generally differed in character and genius, there was a resemblance between their history and character. The satire of Churchill flowed with a more profuse, though not a more embittered, stream; while, on the other hand, he cannot be compared to Lord Byron in point of tenderness or imagination. But both these poets held themselves above the opinion of the world, and both were followed by the fame and popularity which they seemed to despise. The wri PROMETHEUS. I. TITAN! to whose immortal eyes Were not as things that gods despise ; A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Until his voice is echoless. II. Titan! to thee the strife was given lings of both exhibit an inborn, though sometimes ill-regulated generosity of mind, and a spirit of proud independence, frequently pushed to extremes. Both carried their hatred of hypocrisy beyond the verge of prudence, and indulged their vein of satire to the borders of licentiousness. Both died in the flower of their age in a foreign land. — SIR WALTER SCOTT.] And the deaf tyranny of Fate, Refused thee even the boon to die: Was thine and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee That in his hand the lightnings trembled. III. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Its own concentred recompense, Diodati, July, 1816. A FRAGMENT. "COULD I REMOUNT," ETC.] COULD I remount the river of my years The whole of that of which we are a part? |