让我一个人呆一会儿吧，在他的坟前，那里仍然堆满了凋零的鲜花和花圈;笑着的小溪跳跃着，落下，画眉欢呼，布谷鸟叫着，他安静地躺着?d之下。带着桃金娘的十字架和玫瑰的花冠，还有每一朵盛开的低贱的花，他新做的床上都盛装;报春花和九轮草，野生风信子，聚集?君主，农民，孩子，一个国家?我的悲伤证明。我没有站在哀伤的人群中，他们围在他的裹尸布周围，虔诚地向他告别。在家里?他说的哪个城市?d、尖塔顶?D，汹涌的波涛?我听说他死了。现在啊?er his tomb at last I bend, No greeting get, no greeting tend, Who never came before Unto his presence, but I took, From word or gesture, tone or look, Some wisdom from his door. And must I now unanswer?d wait, And, though a suppliant at the gate, No sound my ears rejoice? Listen! Yes, even as I stand, I feel the pressure of his hand, The comfort of his voice. How poor were Fame, did grief confess That death can make a great life less, Or end the help it gave! Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane, But his well-ripen?d deeds remain, Untouch?d, above his grave. Let this, too, soothe our widow?d minds; Silenced are the opprobrious winds Whene?er the sun goes down; And free henceforth from noonday noise, He at a tranquil height enjoys The starlight of renown. Thus hence we something more may take Than sterile grief, than formless ache, Or vainly utter?d vow; Death hath bestow?d what life withheld And he round whom detraction swell?d Hath peace with honor now. The open jeer, the covert taunt, The falsehood coin?d in factious haunt, These loving gifts reprove. They never were but thwarted sound Of ebbing waves that bluster round A rock that will not move. And now the idle roar rolls off, Hush?d is the gibe and sham?d the scoff, Repress?d the envious gird; Since death, the looking-glass of life, Clear?d of the misty breath of strife, Reflects his face unblurr?d. From callow youth to mellow age, Men turn the leaf and scan the page, And note, with smart of loss, How wit to wisdom did mature, How duty burn?d ambition pure, And purged away the dross. Youth is self-love; our manhood lends Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends, So that when age steals nigh, How few find any worthier aim Than to protract a flickering flame, Whose oil hath long run dry! But he, unwitting youth once flown, With England?s greatness link?d his own, And, steadfast to that part, Held praise and blame but fitful sound, And in the love of country found Full solace for his heart. Now in an English grave he lies: With flowers that tell of English skies And mind of English air, A grateful sovereign decks his bed, And hither long with pilgrim tread Will English feet repair. Yet not beside his grave alone We seek the glance, the touch, the tone; His home is nigh,?but there, See from the hearth his figure fled, The pen unrais?d, the page unread, Untenanted the chair! Vainly the beechen boughs have made A fresh green canopy of shade, Vainly the peacocks stray; While Carlo, with despondent gait, Wonders how long affairs of State Will keep his lord away. Here most we miss the guide, the friend; Back to the churchyard let me wend, And, by the posied mound, Lingering where late stood worthier feet, Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet, A loftier dirge would sound. At least I bring not tardy flowers: Votive to him life?s budding powers, Such as they were, I gave? He not rejecting, so I may Perhaps these poor faint spices lay, Unchidden, on his grave!