He sleeps beneath the violets,
That grow above him like regrets,
That he, so sick at heart should come
Here in the splendid past of Rome,
And lay him down to rest, nor crave
The glory of an English grave,
Where Fame might whisper soft and clear—
'An English poet's dust is here.'
But the gods loved him, and they drew
His spirit to theirs as winds the dew,
Until his music took the tone
And changing sorrow of their own.
Such sorrow as the waves will make,
When winds from slumber half awake,
And overhead is spread on high
The lonely distance of the sky.
They beat above him with the wreath
Of early song and early death;
They wove it round pale brows that felt
The glory of the doom they dealt.
That he should find an early home
Within their past and that of Rome,
Whose fading splendour should receive
The melody for which they grieve.
'Sleep then,' they said, 'with flowers above,
And feel the doom of those we love—
Immortal youth apart from fears,
No dread of slowly waning years,
No time to touch the pulse or shake
The dews from off the heart, nor wake
The shadows into life, but be
Immortal as our love for thee.'
He sleeps with violets above
Whom Shelley's heart and England love.
He sleeps. O let him slumber on,
The past of Rome around him thrown.
So let him rest, nor for him crave
The glory of an English grave;
For Fame will whisper soft and clear—
'An English poet's dust is here.'