From an Album that is kept for visitors to register their names in, I copied the following lines, composed by William Hewitt, immediately after the interment:
"Rest in thy tomb, young heir of glory, rest!
Rest in thy rustic tomb, which thou shalt make
A spot of light upon thy country's breast,
Known, honored, haunted ever for thy sake.
Thither romantic pilgrims shall betake
Themselves from distant lands. When we are still
In centuries of sleep, thy fame shall wake,
And thy great memory with deep feelings fill
These scenes which thou hast trod, and hallow every hill."
This closed my visit to the interesting scenes associated with Byron's strange and eventful history—scenes that ever acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years softens the errors of the man, and confirms the genius of the poet.
The following lines, written by Byron in early life, were realized in his death in a foreign land:
"When Time or soon or late shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid limb
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!
"No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
"But silent let me sink to Earth,
With no officious mourners near;
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear."
