LXXIX.
For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed![296]
Dust—imaged forms—with cross, and shield, and crest;
It seem’d as if your ashes would have started
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest!
Yet ne’er, perchance, did worshipper of yore
Bear to your thrilling presence what I bore
Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast!
I could have pour’d out words, on that pale air,
To make your proud tombs ring. No, no! I could not there!