XXV.
I call the fond wish back—for thou hast perish’d
More nobly far, my Alvar!—making known
The might of truth;[291] and be thy memory cherish’d
With theirs, the thousands that around her throne
Have pour’d their lives out smiling, in that doom
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown,
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread,
Filling man’s heart and home with records of the dead.