At Shelley’s Grave poem – Alfred Austin

Beneath this marble, mute of praise,

Is hushed the heart of One

Who, whilst it beat, had eagle’s gaze

To stare upon the sun.

Equal in flight

To any height,

He lies where they that crawl but come,

Sleeping most sound,-Cor Cordium.

No rippling notes announcing spring,

No bloom-evoking breeze,

No fleecy clouds that earnest bring

Of summer on the seas,

Avail to wake

The heart whose ache

Was to be tender overmuch

To Nature’s every tone and touch.

The insolence of stranger drum,

Vexing the broad blue air,

To smite a nation’s clamour dumb,

Or spur a rash despair,

Which once had wrung

That prophet tongue

To challenge force or cheer the slave,

Rolls unrebuked around his grave.

The cruel clarion’s senseless bray,

The lamb’s half-human bleat,

Patter of shower on sward or spray,

Or clang of mailèd feet,

Are weak alike

To stir or strike

The once swift voice that now is dumb

To war’s reveil, cicala’s hum.

Oh wake, dead heart! come back! indeed

Come back! Thy thunderous brow

And levin shafts the world did need

Never so much as now.

The chain, the rack,

The hopes kept back

By those whom serfs are forced to trust,

Might well reanimate thy dust.

Nay, Poet, rest thou quiet there,

‘Neath sunshine, wind, and rain;

At least if thou canst scarce repair,

Thou dost not share our pain.

It is enough

That cold rebuff

And calumny of knave and dunce

Did vex thy tender spirit once.

Where was the marvel, though thy corse

Submitted to the pyre,

Thy heart of hearts should foil the force

Of the sea-wind-blown fire?

It was but just

That what was dust

Should own the cradle whence it came-

But when did flame e’er feed on flame?

Or rather say the sacred torch,

The while it did illume

Thy heart, did also so far scorch,

Was nought left to consume?

That ardent zeal

For human weal

Had searched and parched it o’er and o’er,

Till, lava like, ‘twould burn no more.

I snatch the banner from thy grave,

I wave the torch on high;

‘Spite smiling tyrant, crouching slave,

The Cause shall never die!

Sceptre and cowl

May smite or scowl,

Serfs hug the chains they half deserve-

Right cannot miss, howe’er it swerve!

Alas! you failed, who were so strong:

Shall I succeed, so weak?

Life grows still shorter, art more long;

You sang-I scarce can speak.

Promethean fire

Within your lyre

Made manly words with music mate,

Whilst I am scarce articulate.

He sang too early to be heard;

The world is drowsy still;

And only those whose sleep is stirred

By lines that streak the hill,

Or the first notes

Of matin throats,

Have heard his strain ‘mid hush of night,

And known it harbinger of Light.

But when the Day shall come whose dawn

He early did forbode,

When men by Knowledge shall be drawn,

Not driven by the goad,

This spot apart,

Where sleeps his heart,

Deaf to all clamour, wrong, or rage,

Shall be their choicest pilgrimage.