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The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid,
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague.
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown; Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould below: Proud names! who once the reins of empire held, In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; Chief's graced with scars and prodigal of blood, Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood, Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven. Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a nobler guest, Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.
IS well to see these accidental great, Noble by birth, or Fortune's favor blind, Gracing themselves in adding grace and state To the more noble eminence of mind,
1 He was buried in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey, his pall being supported by six noblemen.
And doing homage to a bard
Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred,
Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed.
While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered,
A mausoleum of his own
Long as the world endures his greatness shall proclaim.
What lauding sepulchre does Campbell want? "T is his to give, and not derive renown. What monumental bronze or adamant,
Like his own deathless lays can hand him down? Poets outlast their tombs: the bust
And statue soon revert to dust;
The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown.
The solid Abbey walls that seem time-proof,
The clustered shafts and arch supported roof,
That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb, Become a ruined, shattered fane,
May fall and bury him again:
Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall bloom.
Methought the monumental effigies
Of elder poets that were grouped around, Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes,
To peer into the excavated ground
Where lay the gifted, good, and brave,
Fell on his coffin-plate with freedom-shrieking sound.
And over him the kindred dust was strewed
The poet's confine is the amplitude
Of the whole earth's illimitable range,
O'er which his spirit wings its flight,
Shedding an intellectual light,
A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change.
Around his grave in radiant brotherhood,
As if to form a halo o'er his head,
To wave each separating plea
Of sect, clime, party, and degree,
All honoring him on whom Nature all honors shed.
To me the humblest of the mourning band,
Who knew the bard through many a changeful year,
It was a proud sad privilege to stand
Beside his grave and shed a parting tear.
Seven lustres had he been my friend,
This all-unworthy wreath on such a poet's bier.
WALKING THE STREETS OF LONDON.
HROUGH winter streets to steer your course aright,
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way;
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, And "Clean your shoes!" resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And damsels first renew their oyster-cries,
The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
Nor should it prove thy less important care,
And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain;
Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace.