歌德在魏玛沉睡，而拜伦的奋斗早已在希腊停止。但这样的死亡还会有一个;最后一个诗意的声音是哑的——我们今天站在华兹华斯的墓旁。当拜伦死后闭上双眼，我们低下头，屏住呼吸。他教我们的很少;但我们的灵魂感受到他就像雷声隆隆。带着颤抖的心，我们看到激情与永恒法则的斗争;然而，我们怀着虔诚的敬畏之心，注视着为那场泰坦尼克之争服务的炽热生命之泉。听到歌德的死讯时，我们说:欧洲最聪明的脑袋沉下去了。铁器时代的医生歌德已经完成了他的朝圣之旅。 He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; And struck his finger on the place, And said: Thou ailest here, and here! He look'd on Europe's dying hour Of fitful dream and feverish power; His eye plunged down the weltering strife, The turmoil of expiring life-- He said: The end is everywhere, Art still has truth, take refuge there! And he was happy, if to know Causes of things, and far below His feet to see the lurid flow Of terror, and insane distress, And headlong fate, be happiness. And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! For never has such soothing voice Been to your shadowy world convey'd, Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade Heard the clear song of Orpheus come Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye, Ah, may ye feel his voice as we! He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen--on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round; He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth, Smiles broke from us and we had ease; The hills were round us, and the breeze Went o'er the sun-lit fields again; Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. Our youth return'd; for there was shed On spirits that had long been dead, Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, The freshness of the early world. Ah! since dark days still bring to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power? Others will teach us how to dare, And against fear our breast to steel; Others will strengthen us to bear-- But who, ah! who, will make us feel? The cloud of mortal destiny, Others will front it fearlessly-- But who, like him, will put it by? Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, O Rotha, with thy living wave! Sing him thy best! for few or none Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.