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'Tis not so sad to know that thus he died,
Small power hath Death to trouble such as he,
Whom, overcome by darkest treachery,
No meaner pang than pity could betide,
But that so rich a spirit—such a pride
Of passion, splendor, immortality,
Such a fire—be quenched and lost so utterly,
How sinks our heart of hope betrayed, belied!
Alas, and this is so! Not all that zeal,
And power, and holy ardor could avail
To turn aside one mean assassin's steel!
What if within yon silent city's pale
All these imperial passions that we feel
Be found at last but splendid dreams that fail?

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