 | Collected poems |  |
317
CHARLES GEORGE GORDON
“Rather be dead than praised,” he said,
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!
“Rather be dead than praised!” Shall we,
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?
Nay,—let us hold, be mute. Our pain
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.
| Collected poems | |