The years wiped out the man, but left

The jewel fresh as any blossom.

Till some Visconti dug it up,

To rise and fall on Mabel’s bosom.

O Roman brother! see how Time

Your gracious handiwork has guarded;

See how your loving, patient art

Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men

And pangs of hopeless passion also,