Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.45
VI
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true-love[1] tears, instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!50
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies-the storm is overpast.
VII
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still60
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
VIII
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace65
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface70
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.[2]
IX
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams75
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,80
They ne'er will gather strength, or[3] find a home again.
