Beautiful in thy death thou liest down,
Sweet, younger comrade of my happier days;
Let others in proud books thy honors blaze,
Whose marble sleep the Cross of France doth crown!
But more to me than deeds of war's renown,
Or any light upon the poet's bays,
Is the remembrance of the sacred ways
We followed, up the paths of Beauty-flown,

Before us flying. To another land,
Half the world o'er, she lured us, ever on:—
Still from Art's fragments rose her pointing hand!
Still in old verse her early presence shone!
Now upon earthly shores, alone, I stand;
But thou, dear boy, hast to her bosom won.