Here no sepulchre built
In the laurelled rock, o'er the blue
Naples bay, for a sweet
Tender Virgil; no tomb
On Ravenna sands, in the shade
Of Ravenna pines, for a high
Austere Dante; no grave
By the Avon side, in the bright
Stratford meadows, for thee,
Shakspeare, loveliest of souls,
Peerless in radiance, in joy!
What, then, so harsh and malign,
Heine! distils from thy life?
Poisons the peace of thy grave?
I chide with thee not, that thy sharp
Upbraidings often assailed
England, my country; for we,
Heavy and sad, for her sons,
Long since, deep in our hearts,
Echo the blame of her foes.
We too sigh that she flags;
We too say that she now—
Scarce comprehending the voice
Of her greatest, golden-mouthed sons
Of a former age any more—
Stupidly travels her round
Of mechanic business, and lets
Slow die out of her life
Glory, and genius, and joy.
So thou arraign'st her, her foe;
So we arraign her, her sons.
