The Roman violets blossom on your tomb,—
Not Surrey daisies nor the Kentish may;
No swaying elm above you, but the bay;
And yonder towers the alien cypress gloom.
Harsh fate, it seemed, that grudged your ashes room
To rest beneath some quiet orchard spray
Where English blackbirds pipe the opening day
When England's April fills the dale with bloom.

Yet better so,—that not your island home
Alone might know and love your wreathèd rhyme.
While this, our speech, is glorious with your fame,
Fitly upon the withered breast of Rome,—
Mother of Empire, hoary bride of Time,—
Sparkles the deathless luster of your name.