Memorial Verses
Goethe
in
Weimar
sleeps,
and
Greece,
Long
since,
saw
Byron's
struggle
cease.
But
one
such
death
remain'd
to
come;
The
last
poetic
voice
is
dumb—
We
stand
to-day
by
Wordsworth's
tomb.
When
Byron's
eyes
were
shut
in
death,
We
bow'd
our
head
and
held
our
breath.
He
taught
us
little;
but
our
soul
Had
felt
him
like
the
thunder's
roll.
With
shivering
heart
the
strife
we
saw
Of
passion
with
eternal
law;
And
yet
with
reverential
awe
We
watch'd
the
fount
of
fiery
life
Which
served
for
that
Titanic
strife.
When
Goethe's
death
was
told,
we
said:
Sunk,
then,
is
Europe's
sagest
head.
Physician
of
the
iron
age,
Goethe
has
done
his
pilgrimage.
He
took
the
suffering
human
race,
He
read
each
wound,
each
weakness
clear;
And
struck
his
finger
on
the
place,
And
said:
Thou
ailest
here,
and
here!
He
look'd
on
Europe's
dying
hour
Of
fitful
dream
and
feverish
power;
His
eye
plunged
down
the
weltering
strife,
The
turmoil
of
expiring
life—
He
said:
The
end
is
everywhere,
Art
still
has
truth,
take
refuge
there!
And
he
was
happy,
if
to
know
Causes
of
things,
and
far
below
His
feet
to
see
the
lurid
flow
Of
terror,
and
insane
distress,
And
headlong
fate,
be
happiness.
And
Wordsworth!—Ah,
pale
ghosts,
rejoice!
For
never
has
such
soothing
voice
Been
to
your
shadowy
world
convey'd,
Since
erst,
at
morn,
some
wandering
shade
Heard
the
clear
song
of
Orpheus
come
Through
Hades,
and
the
mournful
gloom.
Wordsworth
has
gone
from
us—and
ye,
Ah,
may
ye
feel
his
voice
as
we!
He
too
upon
a
wintry
clime
Had
fallen—on
this
iron
time
Of
doubts,
disputes,
distractions,
fears.
He
found
us
when
the
age
had
bound
Our
souls
in
its
benumbing
round;
He
spoke,
and
loosed
our
heart
in
tears.
He
laid
us
as
we
lay
at
birth
On
the
cool
flowery
lap
of
earth,
Smiles
broke
from
us
and
we
had
ease;
The
hills
were
round
us,
and
the
breeze
Went
o'er
the
sun-lit
fields
again;
Our
foreheads
felt
the
wind
and
rain.
Our
youth
return'd;
for
there
was
shed
On
spirits
that
had
long
been
dead,
Spirits
dried
up
and
closely
furl'd,
The
freshness
of
the
early
world.
Ah!
since
dark
days
still
bring
to
light
Man's
prudence
and
man's
fiery
might,
Time
may
restore
us
in
his
course
Goethe's
sage
mind
and
Byron's
force;
But
where
will
Europe's
latter
hour
Again
find
Wordsworth's
healing
power?
Others
will
teach
us
how
to
dare,
And
against
fear
our
breast
to
steel;
Others
will
strengthen
us
to
bear—
But
who,
ah!
who,
will
make
us
feel?
The
cloud
of
mortal
destiny,
Others
will
front
it
fearlessly—
But
who,
like
him,
will
put
it
by?
Keep
fresh
the
grass
upon
his
grave,
O
Rotha,
with
thy
living
wave!
Sing
him
thy
best!
for
few
or
none
Hears
thy
voice
right,
now
he
is
gone.
