Part 7 — WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 1775–1864

Ah, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these watchful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

I strove with none, for none were worth my strife. Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art, I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return!

And why the wish! the pure and blest Watch, like thy mother, o’er thy sleep; O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.