26.12.2010, 13:30
THE LACHRYMATORY.
From out the grave of one whose budding years
Were cropt by death, when Rome was in her prime,
I brought the phial of his kinsman's tears.
There placed, as was the wont of ancient time ;
Round me, that night, in meads of asphodel.
The souls of the early dead did come and go,
Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a spell.
That long-imprison'd shower of human woe ;
As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood.
The heroes throng'd, those spirits flock'd to me,
Where, lonely, with that charm of tears, I stood ;
Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did see ;
The young Marcellus, young, but great and good.
And Tully's daughter, mourn'd so tenderly.
From out the grave of one whose budding years
Were cropt by death, when Rome was in her prime,
I brought the phial of his kinsman's tears.
There placed, as was the wont of ancient time ;
Round me, that night, in meads of asphodel.
The souls of the early dead did come and go,
Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a spell.
That long-imprison'd shower of human woe ;
As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood.
The heroes throng'd, those spirits flock'd to me,
Where, lonely, with that charm of tears, I stood ;
Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did see ;
The young Marcellus, young, but great and good.
And Tully's daughter, mourn'd so tenderly.