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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538644" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Grave Of Howard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread<br>Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread;<br>Who darkly speedest on thy destined way,<br>Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay;<br>Spirit! behold thy victory! Assume<br>A form more terrible, an ampler plume;<br>For he, who wandered o'er the world alone,<br>Listening to Misery's universal moan;<br>He who, sustained by Virtue's arm sublime,<br>Tended the sick and poor from clime to clime, <br>Low in the dust is laid, thy noblest spoil!<br>And Mercy ceases from her awful toil!<br>'Twas where the pestilence at thy command<br>Arose to desolate the sickening land,<br>When many a mingled cry and dying prayer<br>Resounded to the listening midnight air,<br>When deep dismay heard not the frequent knell,<br>And the wan carcase festered as it fell:<br>'Twas there, with holy Virtue's awful mien,<br>Amid the sad sights of that fearful scene, <br>Calm he was found: the dews of death he dried;<br>He spoke of comfort to the poor that cried;<br>He watched the fading eye, the flagging breath,<br>Ere yet the languid sense was lost in death;<br>And with that look protecting angels wear,<br>Hung o'er the dismal couch of pale Despair!<br>Friend of mankind! thy righteous task is o'er;<br>The heart that throbbed with pity beats no more.<br>Around the limits of this rolling sphere,<br>Where'er the just and good thy tale shall hear, <br>A tear shall fall: alone, amidst the gloom<br>Of the still dungeon, his long sorrow's tomb,<br>The captive, mourning, o'er his chain shall bend,<br>To think the cold earth holds his only friend!<br>He who with labour draws his wasting breath<br>On the forsaken silent bed of death,<br>Remembering thy last look and anxious eye,<br>Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die.<br>Friend of mankind, farewell! These tears we shed--<br>So nature dictates--o'er thy earthly bed; <br>Yet we forget not, it was His high will,<br>Who saw thee Virtue's arduous task fulfil,<br>Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest:--<br>So wills thy GOD, and what He wills is best!<br>Thou hast encountered dark Disease's train,<br>Thou hast conversed with Poverty and Pain,<br>Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe,<br>That through this mournful vale unfriended go;<br>And, pale with sympathy, hast paused to hear<br>The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear. <br>Go then, the task fulfilled, the trial o'er,<br>Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more!<br>How awful did thy lonely track appear,<br>Enlightening Misery's benighted sphere!<br>As when an angel all-serene goes forth<br>To still the raging tempest of the north,<br>The embattled clouds that hid the struggling day,<br>Slow from his face retire in dark array;<br>On the black waves, like promontories hung,<br>A light, as of the orient morn, is flung, <br>Till blue and level heaves the silent brine,<br>And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine;<br>Ev'n so didst thou go forth with cheering eye--<br>Before thy glance the shades of misery fly;<br>So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wide<br>Of human woe the loud-lamenting tide.<br>Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire,<br>As fades the feeble spark of vital fire,<br>But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mild<br>Humanity's remotest prospects wild, <br>Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurled,<br>Till final ruin hush the murmuring world,<br>And all its sorrows, at the awful blast<br>Of the archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!<br>Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread,<br>Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.<br>Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top,<br>With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;<br>The feeble characters of Glory's hand<br>Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand; <br>But not with these expire the sacred flame<br>Of Virtue, or the good man's honoured name.<br>HOWARD! it matters not, that far away<br>From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay:<br>Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand<br>Thy steps were led through many a distant land.<br>Thy long and last abode should there be found,<br>Where many a savage nation prowls around:<br>That Virtue from the hallowed spot might rise,<br>And, pointing to the finished sacrifice, <br>Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan<br>Lessons of love, and higher aims of man.<br>The hoary chieftain, who thy tale shall hear,<br>Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear;<br>The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no more<br>To bathe his burning falchion deep in gore;<br>Relentless to the cry of carnage speed,<br>Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed!<br>Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may rise<br>New views of life, and wider charities. <br>Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar,<br>From the cold Don, and Wolga's wandering shore,<br>From many a shady forest's lengthening tract,<br>From many a dark-descending cataract,<br>Succeeding tribes shall come, and o'er the place,<br>Where sleeps the general friend of human race,<br>Instruct their children what a debt they owe;<br>Speak of the man who trode the paths of woe;<br>Then bid them to their native woods depart,<br>With new-born virtue stirring in their heart. <br>When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides<br>In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides,<br>Bent on the frontiers of the Imperial Czar,<br>To pour the tempest of vindictive war;<br>If onward to those shores they haply steer,<br>Where, HOWARD, thy cold dust reposes near,<br>Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream,<br>And seen far off the golden crescents gleam,<br>Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breast<br>Shall feel a still unwonted awe impressed, <br>And the relenting Pagan turn aside<br>To think--on yonder shore the _Christian_ died!<br>But thou, O Briton! doomed perhaps to roam<br>An exile many a year and far from home,<br>If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads<br>To the wild Nieper's banks, and whispering reeds,<br>O'er HOWARD's grave thou shalt impassioned bend,<br>As if to hold sad converse with a friend.<br>Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene,<br>Where'er thy weary pilgrimage hath been, <br>There shalt thou pause; and shutting from thy heart<br>Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start,<br>Think upon him to every lot resigned,<br>Who wept, who toiled, and perished for mankind.<br>For me, who musing, HOWARD, on thy fate,<br>These pensive strains at evening meditate,<br>I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught<br>To mend my heart, or animate my thought.<br>I thank thee, HOWARD, for that awful view<br>Of life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true. <br>Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloom<br>Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb.<br>Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise<br>Thy virtues live, perhaps, in seraph's lays!<br>I, borne in thought, to the wild Nieper's wave,<br>Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Lisle+Bowles">William Lisle Bowles</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538644" data-title="The Grave Of Howard de William Lisle Bowles" data-description="Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread
Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread;
Who darkly speedest on thy destined way,
Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay;
Spirit! behold thy victory! Assume
A form more terrible..."></div>
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