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Alfred Austin - At Shelley’s Grave
Work rating: Low

Beneath this marble, mute of praise,
 Is hushed the heart of One
 Who, whilst it beat, had eagle`s gaze
 To stare upon the sun.
 Equal in flight
 To any height,
 He lies where they that crawl but come,
 Sleeping most sound,—Cor Cordium.

 No rippling notes announcing spring,
 No bloom—evoking breeze,
 No fleecy clouds that earnest bring
 Of summer on the seas,
  Avail to wake
 The heart whose ache
 Was to be tender overmuch
 To Nature`s every tone and touch.

 The insolence of stranger drum,
 Vexing the broad blue air,
 To smite a nation`s clamour dumb,
 Or spur a rash despair,
 Which once had wrung
 That prophet tongue
 To challenge force or cheer the slave,
 Rolls unrebuked around his grave.

 The cruel clarion`s senseless bray,
 The lamb`s half—human bleat,
 Patter of shower on sward or spray,
 Or clang of mailèd feet,
 Are weak alike
 To stir or strike
  The once swift voice that now is dumb
 To war`s reveil, cicala`s hum.

 Oh wake, dead heart! come back! indeed
 Come back! Thy thunderous brow
 And levin shafts the world did need
 Never so much as now.
 The chain, the rack,
 The hopes kept back
 By those whom serfs are forced to trust,
 Might well reanimate thy dust.

 Nay, Poet, rest thou quiet there,
 `Neath sunshine, wind, and rain;
 At least if thou canst scarce repair,
 Thou dost not share our pain.
 It is enough
 That cold rebuff
 And calumny of knave and dunce
 Did vex thy tender spirit once.

 Where was the marvel, though thy corse
 Submitted to the pyre,
 Thy heart of hearts should foil the force
 Of the sea—wind—blown fire?
 It was but just
 That what was dust
 Should own the cradle whence it came—
 But when did flame e`er feed on flame?

 Or rather say the sacred torch,
 The while it did illume
 Thy heart, did also so far scorch,
 Was nought left to consume?
 That ardent zeal
 For human weal
 Had searched and parched it o`er and o`er,
 Till, lava like, `twould burn no more.

 I snatch the banner from thy grave,
 I wave the torch on high;
  `Spite smiling tyrant, crouching slave,
 The Cause shall never die!
 Sceptre and cowl
 May smite or scowl,
 Serfs hug the chains they half deserve—
 Right cannot miss, howe`er it swerve!

 Alas! you failed, who were so strong:
 Shall I succeed, so weak?
 Life grows still shorter, art more long;
 You sang—I scarce can speak.
 Promethean fire
 Within your lyre
 Made manly words with music mate,
 Whilst I am scarce articulate.

 He sang too early to be heard;
 The world is drowsy still;
 And only those whose sleep is stirred
 By lines that streak the hill,
  Or the first notes
 Of matin throats,
 Have heard his strain `mid hush of night,
 And known it harbinger of Light.

 But when the Day shall come whose dawn
 He early did forbode,
 When men by Knowledge shall be drawn,
 Not driven by the goad,
 This spot apart,
 Where sleeps his heart,
 Deaf to all clamour, wrong, or rage,
 Shall be their choicest pilgrimage.
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