THE WHITE-ROSE garland at her feet, | |
| The crown of laurel at her head, | |
| Her noble life on earth complete, | |
| Lay her in the last low bed | |
| For the slumber calm and deep: | 5 |
| “He giveth His beloved sleep.” | |
| |
| Soldiers find their fittest grave | |
| In the field whereon they died; | |
| So her spirit pure and brave | |
| Leaves the clay it glorified | 10 |
| To the land for which she fought | |
| With such grand impassioned thought. | |
| |
| Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome, | |
| She in well-loved Tuscan earth; | |
| Finding all their death’s long home | 15 |
| Far from their old home of birth. | |
| Italy, you hold in trust | |
| Very sacred English dust. | |
| |
| Therefore this one prayer I breathe,— | |
| That you yet may worthy prove | 20 |
| Of the heirlooms they bequeath | |
| Who have loved you with such love: | |
| Fairest land while land of slaves | |
| Yields their free souls no fit graves. | |
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