To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines,
And with th’ ancestral trophies of thy race;
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place!
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread,
Thou bright young stranger midst the mighty dead!

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given,
Banner and dirge met proudly o’er thy grave,
Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven,
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave:
And thy dust blends with mould heroic there,
With all that sanctifies the inspiring air.

Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep!
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone
Thy childhood dwells--whose thoughts a record keep
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone;
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth--
A vernal promise, faded now from earth!

But a bright memory claims a proud regret--
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs
Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet
Whose soul can number with love’s holy things,
A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot,
A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.