To William Shelley
(With what truth may I say--Roma! Roma! Roma!Non e piu come era prima!)
My lost William, thou in whomSome bright spirit lived, and didThat decaying robe consumeWhich its lustre faintly hid,--Here its ashes find a tomb,But beneath this pyramidThou art not--if a thing divineLike thee can die, thy funeral shrineIs thy mother's grief and mine.
Where art thou, my gentle child?Let me think thy spirit feeds,With its life intense and mild,The love of living leaves and weedsAmong these tombs and ruins wild;--Let me think that through low seedsOf sweet flowers and sunny grassInto their hues and scents may passA portion--
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