A Sicilian Story With Diego de Montilla, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter]. Second Edition |
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LINES
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. |
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 | A Sicilian Story |  |
146
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
O Rome! amongst thy temples high,
And columns with the wild weed crown'd,
And sculptured capitals that lie
Struck down, and in the grasp of Time,
How many a mighty heart sublime
Lies dead and stripp'd of all its fame,
Like those who never earn'd a name,
Or played a base or vulgar part;
And now—thou hast another heart,
(No better in the wide world found)
Buried in thy immortal ground.
For thou—(altho' thy works of stone,
All in their times renowned known
As things of mere mortality
Must perish—) thou canst never die.
And columns with the wild weed crown'd,
And sculptured capitals that lie
Struck down, and in the grasp of Time,
How many a mighty heart sublime
Lies dead and stripp'd of all its fame,
Like those who never earn'd a name,
Or played a base or vulgar part;
And now—thou hast another heart,
(No better in the wide world found)
Buried in thy immortal ground.
For thou—(altho' thy works of stone,
All in their times renowned known
147
Must perish—) thou canst never die.
But he, the burthen of my song,
Who came, but might not tarry long,
In summer strength hath perished.
Oh! many a thing beside the grave
Whom few could love, and none could save,
Hath he, with weak but hurrying tread
Passed.— And he is with the dead!
‘The dead’—whom now 'twere vain to call
While lying in their silent sleep,
And yet we cannot help but weep,
Albeit 'tis idle, idle all.
Then, let this poor memorial
Remind some of his early day,
And to all who lov'd him, say
Though gone, he is not quite forgot.
While to those who knew him not,
It is enough to tell that he
Was such a man as men should be;
That pray'r, nor art, nor love could save;
And that he lies in a foreign grave.
Who came, but might not tarry long,
In summer strength hath perished.
Oh! many a thing beside the grave
Whom few could love, and none could save,
Hath he, with weak but hurrying tread
Passed.— And he is with the dead!
‘The dead’—whom now 'twere vain to call
While lying in their silent sleep,
And yet we cannot help but weep,
Albeit 'tis idle, idle all.
Then, let this poor memorial
Remind some of his early day,
And to all who lov'd him, say
Though gone, he is not quite forgot.
While to those who knew him not,
It is enough to tell that he
Was such a man as men should be;
That pray'r, nor art, nor love could save;
And that he lies in a foreign grave.
| A Sicilian Story | |