ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes,

Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll

I lay my hand on, and not death estranges

My spirit from communion of thy song These memories and these melodies that throng

Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal

These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold,

Or through mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners roll'd.

I among these, I also, in such station

As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods.

And offering to the dead made, and their gods, The old mourners had, standing to make libation,

I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead

Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom,

And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear,

And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb

A curl of sever 'd hair.

But by no hand nor any treason stricken,

Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing,

Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear

Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns ; But bending us-ward with memorial urns

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