To William Shelley

(With what truth may I say-- Roma! Roma! Roma! Non e piu come era prima!)

My lost William, thou in whom Some bright spirit lived, and did That decaying robe consume Which its lustre faintly hid,-- Here its ashes find a tomb, But beneath this pyramid Thou art not--if a thing divine Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine Is 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 weeds Among these tombs and ruins wild;-- Let me think that through low seeds Of sweet flowers and sunny grass Into their hues and scents may pass A portion--