What is the pride of kings, the world’s vain splendour, To such a presence as they witnessed there Who disinterred the bones of Raphael, Awful from the repose of centuries? There stood that day a solemn, anxious crowd Around that altar which conceals beneath The mighty master’s relics--for there was a doubt If it were truly there that he was laid. And there they found all the dull grave could keep Of that Immortal. With no common awe They bent o’er his dark cell, as it disclosed Its treasure to the selfsame holy light That gladdened oft of old the master’s heart, And waked his heaven-eyed genius; while beneath The shadowy splendour of that spacious dome He stood in living sanctity, a pure And heavenly-minded man--even where they stood To gaze upon his dust--and all around He scattered bright and hallowed images Of perfect beauty--in their brightness there Still lying as he left them. Shadows fair Of angel form and feature--ye who gaze In clouded splendour through those cloisters old, Looking as things of life--could ye behold Those slender bones, they were the living hand Beneath whose touch ye started into being And grew to light and beauty, covering Your storied frescoes with the lines of grace, Harmonious hues and features of the sky. And yonder is your birthplace, yon light skull-- The slight and delicate shrine of all that mind! ’Tis a strange thought how vast a world resolved In thy small compass! Senseless as thou art, Who could behold thee as a mouldering bone, The mere dust of unsphered humanity? There, from that lowly cell as rose to light The canonized remains of one whose mind Hath been a worship to the eye of ages, They were not seen thus coldly--time gave back Its venerable honours registered Deep in the heart of living Italy-- A crown of many-tinted sanctities. Thy beauty, goodness, and pure innocence, Thy faculty of vision, gift divine, Rushed round thee as a glory--thou wert seen With all thy laurels round thy honoured tomb. Thine is no pile of unrecording stone-- Pale marble column or tall pyramid, That vainly robs oblivion of its prey: Thy name lives on each lip--thy monuments Are treasures fondly kept midst precious things, Sought out in every land which the sun warms To nobler thoughts--thine are perennial wreaths Of trophies yet surviving, when the fame Of fields that rang through Europe, and made pale The peaceful hamlets of an hundred realms, Have shrunk within the fretted register, The silent scroll, named History--still the halls Of national state or regal pomp are bright With thy far-sought creations, costliest Among the treasured trophies of the mind; And as thy time on earth was consecrated To sacred labours meet for holy walls-- So would I deem thy gifted spirit still, Invested in its light of heavenly thoughts, The minister of some pure temple, where No human errors mingle with the work.