Such natural debts of love our Oxford knows,
So many ancient dues undesecrate,
I marvel how the landmark of a hate
For witness unto future time she chose;
How out of her corroborate ranks arose
The three, in great denial only great,
For Art’s enshrining!… Thus, averted straight,
My soul to seek a holier captain goes:
That sweet...
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April, 1860
goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron’s struggle cease.
But one such death remained to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb—
We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s tomb.When Byron’s eyes were shut in death,
We bowed our head and held our breath.
He taught us little; but our soul
Had felt him like...