He whose revered and silver-crownëd head
Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;
Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,
His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.
Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,
Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,
He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,
Peer of the grandest of your race and state;
Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime—
A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!