ROSE AYLMER
Ah, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these watchful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
EPITAPH
I strove with none, for none were worth my strife.
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art,
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.