From the waste margent of a classic sea;
A flower that grew where some great empire fell,
Worthless themselves, are rich to Memory.
And thus these lines are precious, for the hand
That penned their music crumbles into mould;
And the hot brain that shaped them now is cold
In its own ashes, like a blackened brand.—
But where the fiery soul that wove the spell;
Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb?
Or stretched and tortured on the racks of Hell