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[So you have been with Severn, and have heard]
So you have been with Severn, and have heardThe tongue that spoke to Keats the last farewell,
His on whose breast our darling's dear head fell,
When his great life sank from his latest word.
Sight of that face—what thoughts must it have stirr'd!
Sound of that voice—what memories must it tell
Of him who, lapp'd in glory, now sleeps well
'Neath Roman violets, where no crities gird.
Such is the doom of fame. Even as a saint,
Ere he be crown'd with heaven, devils abuse,
496
Genius, to hail whose greatness they refuse.
Need is there, friend, for those who, o'ertried, faint,
Of such as you, lest we some Keats, too lose.
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