And bathe the corse in vain unheeded tears.
Too late your wisdom; for the lost one hears
No longer or contumely or praise:
On kinder death in weariness he lays
His head, forgetting all that life endears.
And this one, on whose lips the altar coal
Of inspiration burned; within whose soul
The fire of the eternal lived, and wrought
Your baser dross to bars of golden thought;
Oh, how you scorned him! Now, in reverent wise,