To where he sleeps,—not near the honored dead In the dim aisle of some cathedral grand, But in behind old London's noisy Strand, Where late or soon you hear a hurrying tread— One spring-like day my tired feet were led By fond desire, his sacred shrine to view; Finding thereon a bunch of violets blue, I stood awhile with an uncovered head, And heard their-message sweet: "He was not laid Beside his brothers in poetic art; He sleeps alone in his loved Temple's shade, But is embalmed within the human heart"— Happy all they who like asylum find Within the warm affections of mankind. |