B Y Goldsmith ' S tomb the City's cry
Grows faint and distant; now no more,
From that famed street he trod of yore,
Men turn where those old Templars lie!

Only some dreamer such as I
Pauses awhile from dust and roar
B Y Goldsmith ' S tomb!

And then — ah, then! — when none is nigh,
What shadowy shapes, unseen before,
Troop back again from Lethe's shore! —
How the ghosts gather then, and sigh
B Y Goldsmith ' S tomb!