Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/404

And, hard by, the modest mansion
 Where full many a heart has felt
Memories uncounted clustering
 Round the words, "Here Schiller dwelt."

In the churchyard both are buried,
 Straight beyond the narrow gate,
In the mausoleum sleeping
 With Duke Charles in sculptured state.

For the Monarch loved the Poets,
 Called them to him from afar,
Wooed them near his court to linger,
 And the planets sought the star.

He, his larger gifts of fortune
 With their larger fame to blend,
Living, counted it an honor
 That they named him as their friend;

Dreading to be all-forgotten,
 Still their greatness to divide,
Dying, prayed to have his Poets
 Buried one on either side.

But this suited not the gold-laced
 Ushers of the royal tomb,
Where the princely House of Weimar
 Slumbered in majestic gloom.

So they ranged the coffins justly,
 Each with fitting rank and stamp,
And with shows of court precedence
 Mocked the grave’s sepulchral damp.

Fitly now the clownish sexton
 Narrow courtier-rules rebukes;
First he shows the grave of Goethe,
 Schiller’s next, and last—the Duke's.

Vainly ’midst these truthful shadows
 Pride would flaunt her painted wing;
Here the Monarch waits in silence,
 And the Poet is the King!