Stately shapes about the tomb of their mighty maker pace,
Heads of high-plumed Spaniards shine, souls revive of Roman race,
Sound of arms and words of wail through the glowing darkness rise,
  Speech of hearts heroic rings forth of lips that know not breath,
And the light of thoughts august fills the pride of kindling eyes
  Whence of yore the spell of song drove the shadow of darkling death.

IN SEPULCRETIS.

’Vidistis ipso rapere de rogo coenam.’—­CATULLUS, LIX. 3.

’To publish even one line of an author which he himself has not intended for the public at large—­especially letters which are addressed to private persons—­is to commit a despicable act of felony.’—­HEINE.

I.

It is not then enough that men who give
  The best gifts given of man to man should feel,
  Alive, a snake’s head ever at their heel: 
Small hurt the worms may do them while they live—­
Such hurt as scorn for scorn’s sake may forgive. 
  But now, when death and fame have set one seal
  On tombs whereat Love, Grief, and Glory kneel,
Men sift all secrets, in their critic sieve,
Of graves wherein the dust of death might shrink
  To know what tongues defile the dead man’s name
  With loathsome love, and praise that stings like shame. 
Rest once was theirs, who had crossed the mortal brink: 
  No rest, no reverence now:  dull fools undress
  Death’s holiest shrine, life’s veriest nakedness.

II.

A man was born, sang, suffered, loved, and died. 
  Men scorned him living:  let us praise him dead. 
  His life was brief and bitter, gently led
And proudly, but with pure and blameless pride. 
He wrought no wrong toward any; satisfied
  With love and labour, whence our souls are fed
  With largesse yet of living wine and bread. 
Come, let us praise him:  here is nought to hide. 
Make bare the poor dead secrets of his heart,
  Strip the stark-naked soul, that all may peer,
  Spy, smirk, sniff, snap, snort, snivel, snarl, and sneer: 
Let none so sad, let none so sacred part
  Lie still for pity, rest unstirred for shame,
  But all be scanned of all men.  This is fame.

III.

’Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!’[1]
  If one, that strutted up the brawling streets
  As foreman of the flock whose concourse greets
Men’s ears with bray more dissonant than brass,
Would change from blame to praise as coarse and crass
  His natural note, and learn the fawning feats
  Of lapdogs, who but knows what luck he meets? 
But all in vain old fable holds her glass.

Mocked and reviled by men of poisonous breath,
  A great man dies:  but one thing worst was spared,
  Not all his heart by their base hands lay bared. 
One comes to crown with praise the dust of death;
  And lo, through him this worst is brought to pass. 
  Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!