Page:The Diary of Dr John William Polidori.djvu/41

Rh "I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
 * The comet of a season, and I saw

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
 * With not the less of sorrow and of awe

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, With name no clearer than the names unknown Which lay unread around it. And I ask'd
 * The gardener of that ground why it might be

That for this plant strangers his memory task'd,
 * Through the thick deaths of half a century.

And thus he answered: 'Well, I do not know Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so: He died before my day of sextonship,
 * And I had not the digging of this grave.'

And is this all? I thought; and do we rip
 * The veil of immortality, and crave

I know not what of honour and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight So soon and so successless? As I said. The architect of all on which we tread (For earth is but a tombstone) did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought.
 * Were it not that all life must end in one,

Of which we are but dreamers. As he caught
 * As 'twere the twilight of a former sun,

Thus spoke he: 'I believe the man of whom You wot, who lies in this selected tomb. Was a most famous writer in his day; And therefore travellers step from out their way To pay him honour;—and myself whate'er Your honour pleases.' Then most pleased I shook From out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which (as 'twere Perforce) I gave this man—though I could spare So much but inconveniently. Ye smile (I see ye, ye profane ones, all the while)