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, 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 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. 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; '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, 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.