ALL round is Silence! And a withering wreath Lies on the marble o'er his breast: and mute, Quiet from massy brain to nerveless foot, Rests England's last great Seer this stone beneath: Beside him Browning, erst so gay and strong! Well-done!—in England's inmost heart to lay Two English hearts that made her, day by day, More splendid in her deathless dower of song. Poor Poet's Corner!—not to hold in trust, With mournful pride and high solemnity, Our Shakspere's, Milton's, Wordsworth's, Shelley's dust! But here we guard—through all the years to be— Shakspere's twin sons. The bays that bound their brow Shall not be worn by any mightier now! |