POETRY.
THE PANTHEON.
(UMBERTO I., RE D'ITALIA.)
HERE is he laid whose wakings all are done,
He shall not heed, within sleep's silver bars, Meridian splendours of the coursing sun, Nor the predestined vigil of the stars.
Laid in this lonely resting-place of Kings, This heritage of Emperors gone by, Lulled by their city's mid-day murmurings, Father and son in equal silence lie.
They are not dead whose deathless hope denies Failure or folly in their country's creeds, Whose courage prompts yet its high enterprise, And in the day of doubting intercedes.
Yet, though his life be gathered and complete, Bound up and fostered in a nation's pride, One stricken heart must vainly still repeat That broken prayer, that holy hope denied.
But, lady, take this tribute on his tomb, Tribute of aliens; yet, if that be so, Our hearts were heavy with your country's gloom, And in her joy of conquered fortune glow, Mourned with her mourning, caught her changing mood, But most have honoured that grim pm-pose shown, That tender trust, that perfect fortitude, And high example shining on a throne.
CUTHBERT MEDD.
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