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Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose— The tenderest image of mortality— Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn sheaves—all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love! Honour he with the dead!—The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs.—The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewelled crowns On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which, long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!