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the aisle, apart, there stood
 * A mourner like the rest;

And while the solemn rites were said, He fashioned into verse his mood,
 * That would not be repressed.


 * Why did they bring him home,

Bright jewel set in lead?
 * Oh, bear the sculptor back to Rome,

And lay him with the mighty dead,—
 * With Adonäis, and the rest

Of all the young and good and fair,
 * That drew the milk of English breast,

And their last sigh in Latian air!

Lay him with Raphael, unto whom Was granted Rome's most lasting tomb;
 * For many a lustre, many an æon,
 * He might sleep well in the Panthèon,

Deep in the sacred city's womb, The smoke and splendor and the stir of Rome.

Lay him 'neath Diocletian's dome,
 * Blessed Saint Mary of the Angels,
 * Near to that house in which he dwelt,—

House that to many seemed a home,
 * So much with him they loved and felt.

We were his guests a hundred times;
 * We loved him for his genial ways;

He gave me credit for my rhymes,
 * And made me blush with praise.

Ah! there be many histories
 * That no historian writes,

And friendship hath its mysteries
 * And consecrated nights;

Amid the busy days of pain, Wear of hand, and tear of brain, Weary midnight, weary morn, Years of struggle paid with scorn;—
 * Yet oft amid all this despair,

Long rambles in the Autumn days O'er Appian or Flaminian Ways,
 * Bright moments snatched from care,