Mark me how still I am!—The sound of feet Unnumbered echoing through this vaulted hall, Or voices harsh, on me unheeded fall, Placed high in my memorial niche and seat, In cold and marble meditation meet Among proud tombs and pomp funereal Of rich sarcophagi and sculptured wall,— In death’s elaborate elect retreat. I was a Prince,—this monument was wrought That I in honor might eternal stand; In vain, subdued by Buonarroti’s hand, The conscious stone is pregnant with his thought; He to this brooding rock his fame devised, And he, not I, is here immortalized.
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