Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/448

410 Round thee they lie; the grass

Blows from their graves to thy own!

She whose genius, though not

Puissant like thine, was yet

Sweet and graceful; and she

(How shall I sing her?) whose soul

Knew no fellow for might,

Passion, vehemence, grief,

Daring, since Byron died,—

The world-famed son of fire,—she who sank

Baffled, unknown, self-consumed;

Whose too bold dying song24

Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul.

Of one, too, I have heard,

A brother: sleeps he here?

Of all that gifted race

Not the least gifted; young,

Unhappy, eloquent; the child

Of many hopes, of many tears.

O boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well!

On thee too did the Muse

Bright in thy cradle smile;

But some dark shadow came

(I know not what) and interposed.

Sleep, O cluster of friends,

Sleep! or only when May,

Brought by the west-wind, returns

Back to your native heaths,

And the plover is heard on the moors,

Yearly awake to behold

The opening summer, the sky,

The shining moorland; to hear

The drowsy bee, as of old,