Charles Lamb

Though our great love a little wrong his fame,
And seeing him with such familiar eyes
We say " how kind " more often than " how wise,"
Such is the simple reverence he would claim ;
He would not have us call him by a name
Higher than that of friend, — yet by this grave
We feel the saint not pure, nor hero brave,
And all the martyr's patience put to shame.
Brother, we leave thee by thy sister's side ;
Whom such a love bound let not death divide ;
She is at peace, now, brother, thou canst rest ;
Thy long sad guardianship of love is o'er,
And gentle Shakespeare on the dead men's shore
Salutes thy gentle ghost that praised him best.