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And all its accents known:—from field or wave, Never was conqueror on his battle bier, By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum, And the proud drooping of the crested head, More nobly follow'd home.—The last abode, The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd: A still majestic spot! girt solemnly With all th' imploring beauty of decay; A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him With his bright fame to rest in, as a king Of other days, laid lonely with his sword Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant Over the honour'd grave!—the grave!—oh, say Rather the shrine!—An altar for the love, The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower, By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, Shall be made holy things—where every weed Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift From buried glory breath'd. And now, what strain,