All, all in vain—no Star of Song doth rise
Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.
The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace
A front less high than this majestic brow,
The stamp imperial graved upon the face,
Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;
And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart
Blooming and fruiting in the close of art.
That hand which might have grasped yon silent lyre,
And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,