To Emilia Lovatelli, by Frances Anne Kemble

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WEEPING BY SHELLEY’S GRAVE IN THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY OF ROME.

Lur’d by the Siren’s summer song to death,
The Poet fell asleep—and the fine frame,
Shrine of the finer soul, on wings of flame,
Was borne into the air, but underneath
This sacred soil his heart has found a home,
Thy light feet cannot stir its marble sleep,
Nor e’en thy gracious pity wake again
One throbbing pulse of pleasure or of pain.
O noblest daughter of Imperial Rome,
Who by our Poet’s grave hast paus’d to weep,
The after-glow of fame warms not his tomb,
Whose laurels only make its gloom more deep,
But the sweet violet wreath his dead heart wears,
Fragrant and fresh, was sown there by thy tears.

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