These still are common ruins--the remains Of those who were the vulgar of their day, Who battled, built, and traded, and so died, Leaving no trace but nameless monuments, The cast attire of ages, which but serve To show the present how the past went mad, And, like Cassandra, prophesy in vain. The earth yet bears more glorious vestiges Of Time’s illustrious few, whose memory Is greater than the greatest thing that lives-- Haloed by veneration, wonder, love-- Whose very tombs stand in life’s calendar Eras of thought once seen. Is there an eye Could coldly gaze on aught that bears a trace Of Avon’s matchless master of the breast? Who could approach old Dryburgh’s tombs, and feel not The illustrious presence of his great compeer, Whose tomb yet moistens with a nation’s woe, Whose star is young in heaven? Or who can walk Unmoved the cloisters and religious aisles Where Milton lies, renowned with “prophets old,” And honoured Newton, to whom the starred vault Is an enduring monument, as much As the Pantheon’s dome is Angelo’s? What is the pride of kings, the world’s vain splendour, To such a presence as they witnessed there Who disinterred the bones of Raphael, Awful from the repose of centuries? There stood that day a solemn, anxious crowd Around that altar which conceals beneath The mighty master’s relics--for there was a doubt If it were truly there that he was laid. And there they found all the dull grave could keep Of that Immortal. With no common awe They bent o’er his dark cell, as it disclosed Its treasure to the selfsame holy light That gladdened oft of old the master’s heart, And waked his heaven-eyed genius; while beneath The shadowy splendour of that spacious dome He stood in living sanctity, a pure And heavenly-minded man--even where they stood To gaze upon his dust--and all around He scattered bright and hallowed images Of perfect beauty--in their brightness there Still lying as he left them. Shadows fair Of angel form and feature--ye who gaze In clouded splendour through those cloisters old, Looking as things of life--could ye behold Those slender bones, they were the living hand Beneath whose touch ye started into being And grew to light and beauty, covering Your storied frescoes with the lines of grace, Harmonious hues and features of the sky. And yonder is your birthplace, yon light skull-- The slight and delicate shrine of all that mind! ’Tis a strange thought how vast a world resolved In thy small compass! Senseless as thou art, Who could behold thee as a mouldering bone, The mere dust of unsphered humanity? There, from that lowly cell as rose to light The canonized remains of one whose mind Hath been a worship to the eye of ages, They were not seen thus coldly--time gave back