They rolled the marble back. With sudden gasp,
A moment o'er the vault the Kaiser bent,
Where still a mortal monarch seemed to reign.
Crowned on his throne, a scepter in his grasp,
Perfect in each gigantic lineament,

Otho looked face to face on Charlemagne.

Aubrey De Vere [1788-1846]

ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT

[1762-1835]

O BEAR him where the rain can fall,
And where the winds can blow;
And let the sun weep o'er his pall
As to the grave ye go!

And in some little lone churchyard,
Beside the growing corn,

Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard,
Her mightiest peasant-born.

Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave,
That bees may murmur near,
When o'er his last home bend the brave,
And say "A man lies here!"

For Britons honor Cobbett's name,

Though rashly oft he spoke;
And none can scorn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heart of oak.

See, o'er his prostrate branches, see!

E'en factious hate consents

To reverence, in the fallen tree,

His British lineaments.

Though gnarled the storm-tossed boughs that braved

The thunder's gathered scowl,

Not always through his darkness raved

The storm-winds of the soul.

Who, when that web-so frail, so transitory
It broke before her breath-had fallen away,
Saw other webs and others rise for aye
Which kept her prisoned till her hair was hoary.
Those songs half-sung that yet were all divine-
That woke Romance, the queen, to reign afresh—
Had been but preludes from that lyre of thine,
Could thy rare spirit's wings have pierced the mesh
Spun by the wizard who compels the flesh,

But lets the poet see how heaven can shine.

Theodore Watts-Dunton [1836

COWPER'S GRAVE

[1731-1800]

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying;

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their pray

ing;

Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish: Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing!

O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was

clinging!

O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguil

ing,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears

his story,

How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory,

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering

lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted,

per's Grave

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ctify the poet's high vocation, hristian down in meeker adoration; praise, by wise or good forsaken, sehold name of one whom God hath

ho gloom, I learn to think upon him, gratefulness to God whose heaven

madness-cloud to his own love to

l along where breath and bird could

s shattered brain such quick poetic

jor, and stars, harmonious influences; the grass kept his within its number, m the trees refreshed him like a slum

drawn from woods to share his home

an eyes with sylvan tendernesses: d's constraint, from falsehood's ways en became, beside him, true and lov

hess, he remained unconscious of that came without the sweet sense of pro

nn truth, while frenzy desolated,
e satisfies, whom only God created.

t knoweth not his mother while she

s burning brow the coolness of her

That turns his fevered eyes around,-"My mother! where's my mother?"

As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart, he sees her bending o'er him,

Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!

Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave

him,

Beneath those deep, pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save him!

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking,

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those eyes alone, and knew-"My Saviour! not deserted!"

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,

Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted?

What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father:

Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken

It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken!"

It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation,
That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desola-

tion!