E. B. B.

I.     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:     He giveth His belovd sleep. II.     Soldiers find their fittest grave     In the field whereon they died;     So her spirit pure and brave     Leaves the clay it glorified     To the land for which she fought     With such grand impassioned thought. III.     Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome,     She in well-loved Tuscan earth;     Finding all their deaths long home     Far from their old home of birth.     Italy, you hold in trust     Very sacred English dust. IV.     Therefore this one prayer I breathe,     That you yet may worthy prove     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.