Frances Anne Kemble

To Emilia Lovatelli,

WEEPING BY SHELLEY’S GRAVE IN THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY OF ROME.
 
 
Lur’d by the Siren’s summer song to death,
The Poet fell asleep’€”and the fine frame,
Shrine of the finer soul, on wings of flame,
Was borne into the air; but underneath
This sacred soil his heart has found a home;
Thy light feet cannot stir its marble sleep,
Nor e’en thy gracious pity wake again
One throbbing pulse of pleasure or of pain.
O noblest daughter of Imperial Rome,
Who by our Poet’s grave hast paus’d to weep,
The after-glow of fame warms not his tomb,
Whose laurels only make its gloom more deep;
But the sweet violet wreath his dead heart wears,
Fragrant and fresh, was sown there by thy tears.
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