Canto XVIII

'Tis well, 'tis something, we may stand

      Where he in English earth is laid,

      And from his ashes may be made

The violet of his native land.

'Tis little; but it looks in truth

      As if the quiet bones were blest

      Among familiar names to rest

And in the places of his youth.

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head

      That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,

      And come, whatever loves to weep,

And hear the ritual of the dead.

Ah! yet, ev'n yet, if this might be,

      I, falling on his faithful heart,

      Would breathing thro' his lips impart

The life that almost dies in me:

That dies not, but endures with pain,

      And slowly forms the firmer mind,

      Treasuring the look it cannot find,

The words that are not heard again.