Poems By W. C. Bennett: New ed |
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AT FLORENCE—IN SANTA CROCE—BY THE TOMB OF MACHIAVELLI. |
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AT FLORENCE—IN SANTA CROCE—BY THE TOMB OF MACHIAVELLI.
Here lies his dust; where is the spirit nowThat, subtle as the serpent, here once wrought,
And train'd for hell how many a sceptred thought?
Where is the soul that schemed 'neath that still brow,
That to all ill full action dared allow,
So that it grasp'd the glittering prize it sought,
So that the crowns of time to heads it brought
That here in dust before death's footstool bow?
Come here, ye kings; ye subtle brains, come here,
Who, evil, wrought for thrones, dare hold for good,
Doth not a voice here cry to you to care
For heaven's hereafter? rightly understood
Are earth and hell here. Death speaks everywhere;
Would ye would heed his still words as ye should!
Poems | ||