Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
  And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought
  The emblems of a fame that never dies,
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf...

Poet who sleepest by this wandering wave!
  When thou wast born, what birth-gift hadst thou then?
To thee what wealth was that the Immortals gave,
  The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men?

Not Milton’s keen, translunar music thine;
  Not Shakespeare’s...