And vanishes forever. Nay, not so— The Poet’s words are thy best epitaph! And though the stone which marks thy grave but tells The number of the years thy mortal frame Retained that eagle-wingèd soul of thine, How long thy all-compassionating heart Inhabited its clayey tenement, As one of God’s blest almoners, sent down To fill the world with light and melody; Tells when that prophet-tongue of thine was stilled, Which, touched with inspiration’s sacred fire, Preached Man’s eternal brotherhood, and led The battle waged for Justice, Truth, and Right, Still, and despite the tears that Sorrow woos From the spontaneous fountains of our hearts, We know that thou didst come unto thy grave Brimful of years, if noble deeds and thoughts, If love to God and Man, be made alone The measure of thy length of human years; And that, even as thy soul beyond the stars Shall live—as God lives—everlastingly, So shall the memory of thy shining deeds, Remain forever in the hearts of men; Nor shall the record of thy fame be touched By Time’s defacing hand—thou art immortal! And now, dear friend, farewell to thee! Thine eyes Have death’s inviolate seal upon their lids; They cannot see the Season’s glorious shows, Although, methinks, in memory of thee The grass grows greener here, and tenderer The daily benediction of the sun Falls on thy grave, as if thy very dust Had sentience still, and, kindling into life Under the fiery touchings of the sun, Broke through the turfy barriers of the tomb To mingle with the light, and mellow it; There’s not a flower that timidly uplifts Its smiling face, to look upon the Dawn, Or bows its head to worship silently The awful glory of the midnight stars, But what takes on a gentler grace for thee, And for thy sake a sweeter incense flings From out its golden censer.