Canto XVIII
’Tis well, ’tis something, we may standWhere he in English earth is laid,And from his ashes may be madeThe violet of his native land.
’Tis little; but it looks in truthAs if the quiet bones were blestAmong familiar names to restAnd in the places of his youth.
Come then, pure hands, and bear the headThat sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,And come, whatever loves to weep,And hear the ritual of the dead.
Ah! yet, ev’n yet, if this might be,I, falling on his faithful heart,Would breathing thro’ his lips impartThe life that almost dies in me:
That dies not, but endures with pain,And slowly forms the firmer mind,Treasuring the look it cannot find,The words that are not heard again.