Round thee they lie; the grass Blows from their graves to thy own! She whose genius, though not Puissant like thine, was yet Sweet and graceful; and she (How shall I sing her?) whose soul Knew no fellow for might, Passion, vehemence, grief, Daring, since Byron died,-- The world-famed son of fire,--she who sank Baffled, unknown, self-consumed; Whose too bold dying song[24] Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul. Of one, too, I have heard, A brother: sleeps he here? Of all that gifted race Not the least gifted; young, Unhappy, eloquent; the child Of many hopes, of many tears. O boy, if here thou sleep’st, sleep well! On thee too did the Muse Bright in thy cradle smile; But some dark shadow came (I know not what) and interposed. Sleep, O cluster of friends, Sleep! or only when May, Brought by the west-wind, returns Back to your native heaths, And the plover is heard on the moors, Yearly awake to behold The opening summer, the sky, The shining moorland; to hear The drowsy bee, as of old, Hum o’er the thyme, the grouse Call from the heather in bloom! Sleep, or only for this Break your united repose! _EPILOGUE._ So I sang; but the Muse, Shaking her head, took the harp-- Stern interrupted my strain, Angrily smote on the chords. April showers Rush o’er the Yorkshire moors. Stormy, through driving mist, Loom the blurred hills; the rain Lashes the newly-made grave. Unquiet souls! --In the dark fermentation of earth, In the never-idle workshop of nature, In the eternal movement, Ye shall find yourselves again! _RUGBY CHAPEL._ NOVEMBER, 1857. Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of withered leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent; hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the schoolroom windows; but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid. There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah! That word _gloom_ to my mind Brings thee back in the light Of thy radiant vigor again. In the gloom of November we passed Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impaired not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee.