AT THE GRAVE OF CHARLES LAMB, IN EDMONTON

By William Watson

Not here, O teeming City, was it meet

Thy lover, thy most faithful, should repose,

But where the multitudinous life-tide flows

Whose ocean-murmur was to him more sweet

Than melody of birds at morn, or bleat

Of flocks in Spring-time, there should Earth enclose

His earth, amid thy thronging joys and woes,

There,‘ neath the music of thy million feet.

In love of thee this lover knew no peer.

Thine eastern or thy western fane had made

Fit habitation for his noble shade.

Mother of mightier, nurse of none more dear,

Not here, in rustic exile, O not here,

Thy Elia like an alien should be laid!