THE weltering London ways where children weep
And girls whom none call maidens laugh,-strange road
Miring his outward steps, who inly trode
The bright Castalian brink and Latmos' steep:-
Even such his life's cross-paths; till deathly deep
He toiled through sands of Lethe; and long pain,
Weary with labour spurned and love found vain,
In dead Rome's sheltering shadow wrapped his sleep.
O pang-dowered Poet, whose reverberant lips
And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon's eclipse,-
Thou whom the daisies glory in growing o'er,-
Their fragrance clings around thy name, not writ
But rumour'd in water, while the fame of it
Along Time's flood goes echoing evermore.