Above him, as he humbly kneel’d,
Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield—
The man whom once he had reviled,
But whom long since, with fervour wild,
He’d seemed to love; but who looked down
As ’twere with a sardonic frown,
As, very far from being at ease,
Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees.
Each side him, on the Statue’s base,
He for his armour’d found a place,