University of Virginia Library


15

AT SHELLEY'S GRAVE.

The inscription on Shelley's grave, and the history of Cor Cordium, are too well known to need any explanation here. When I first visited that sacred spot, the words were well nigh illegible, and not a flower smiled above the neglected tomb. With some hesitation, but unable to resist a natural impulse, I took upon myself a sweet, but, I fear, too sacred charge, and empowered the custode of the cemetery to cleanse the stone of obliterating moss, and to lavish upon the grave every floral care, consistent with simplicity, till I should once more visit Rome. Returning in the autumn of 1865, I found that a female relative of the poet had recently been to the cemetery, and had kindly condoned my intrusion. Since that time, till at least the spring of 1870, when I last paid a pilgrimage thither, everything that affection and reverence can do to mark the holy ground has been done.

The reader will perceive from the date attached to the poem that French troops then occupied the Eternal City, and their favourite locality for drum and trumpet practising was the neighbourhood of the Protestant Cemetery.

Beneath this marble, mute of praise,
Is hushed the heart of One
Who, whilst it beat, had eagle's gaze
To stare upon the sun.
Equal in flight
To any height,
He lies where they that crawl but come,
Sleeping most sound,—Cor Cordium.
No rippling notes announcing spring,
No bloom-evoking breeze,
No fleecy clouds that earnest bring
Of summer on the seas,

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Avail to wake
The heart whose ache
Was to be tender overmuch
To Nature's every tone and touch.
The insolence of stranger drum,
Vexing the broad blue air,
To smite a nation's clamour dumb,
Or spur a rash despair,
Which once had wrung
That prophet tongue
To challenge force or cheer the slave,
Rolls unrebuked around his grave.
The cruel clarion's senseless bray,
The lamb's half-human bleat,
Patter of shower on sward or spray,
Or clang of mailèd feet,
Are weak alike
To stir or strike

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The once swift voice that now is dumb
To war's reveil, cicala's hum.
Oh wake, dead heart! come back! indeed
Come back! Thy thunderous brow
And levin shafts the world did need
Never so much as now.
The chain, the rack,
The hopes kept back
By those whom serfs are forced to trust,
Might well reanimate thy dust.
Nay, Poet, rest thou quiet there,
'Neath sunshine, wind, and rain;
At least if thou canst scarce repair,
Thou dost not share our pain.
It is enough
That cold rebuff
And calumny of knave and dunce
Did vex thy tender spirit once.

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Where was the marvel, though thy corse
Submitted to the pyre,
Thy heart of hearts should foil the force
Of the sea-wind-blown fire?
It was but just
That what was dust
Should own the cradle whence it came—
But when did flame e'er feed on flame?
Or rather say the sacred torch,
The while it did illume
Thy heart, did also so far scorch,
Was nought left to consume?
That ardent zeal
For human weal
Had searched and parched it o'er and o'er,
Till, lava like, 'twould burn no more.
I snatch the banner from thy grave,
I wave the torch on high;

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'Spite smiling tyrant, crouching slave,
The Cause shall never die!
Sceptre and cowl
May smite or scowl,
Serfs hug the chains they half deserve—
Right cannot miss, howe'er it swerve!
Alas! you failed, who were so strong:
Shall I succeed, so weak?
Life grows still shorter, art more long;
You sang—I scarce can speak.
Promethean fire
Within your lyre
Made manly words with music mate,
Whilst I am scarce articulate.
He sang too early to be heard;
The world is drowsy still;
And only those whose sleep is stirred
By lines that streak the hill,

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Or the first notes
Of matin throats,
Have heard his strain 'mid hush of night,
And known it harbinger of Light.
But when the Day shall come whose dawn
He early did forbode,
When men by Knowledge shall be drawn,
Not driven by the goad,
This spot apart,
Where sleeps his heart,
Deaf to all clamour, wrong, or rage,
Shall be their choicest pilgrimage.
Rome, April 1863.