 | Voices and visions |  |
32
AN EPITAPH
Imperial was the palace of his life;
With memory you may roam its chambers yet.
With memory you may roam its chambers yet.
Here was the throne-room of his intellect,
Sumptuous for purple tapestries; and here
The aerial domed hall of his eloquence;
And here the innumerous-alcoved library
Of his vast erudition; and here drowsed
The rosy and many-mirrored lair of all
His fine poetic visions; and here gleamed
The sanctum of his heartiest friendships, fair
With clustering lights, heaped fruit, and ruddy wine;
And here, august and sculptural, abode
The shrine of his white honour. Oh, in truth,
Imperial was the palace of his life!
Sumptuous for purple tapestries; and here
The aerial domed hall of his eloquence;
And here the innumerous-alcoved library
Of his vast erudition; and here drowsed
The rosy and many-mirrored lair of all
His fine poetic visions; and here gleamed
The sanctum of his heartiest friendships, fair
With clustering lights, heaped fruit, and ruddy wine;
And here, august and sculptural, abode
The shrine of his white honour. Oh, in truth,
Imperial was the palace of his life!
Yet memory, if you will, may lead you past
The cobwebbed gloom of yonder bolted door,
And show you there the assassinated shape
Of Charity. Long since he smote her dead,
And hid her thus, to moulder through the years
In that dark haunt, once beautiful, but now
Dolorous with mildewed garniture—sole blot
On this the imperial palace of his life.
The cobwebbed gloom of yonder bolted door,
And show you there the assassinated shape
Of Charity. Long since he smote her dead,
And hid her thus, to moulder through the years
In that dark haunt, once beautiful, but now
Dolorous with mildewed garniture—sole blot
On this the imperial palace of his life.
| Voices and visions | |