O master, here I bow before a shrine; Before the lordliest dust that every yet Moved animate in human form divine. Lo! dust indeed to dust. The mould is set Above thee, and the ancient walls are wet, And drip all day in dark and silent gloom; As if the cold gray stones could not forget They great estate shrunk to this sombre room, But learn to weep perpetual tears above thy tomb.
September 25. Something glorious! The old man, John Brown by name, took the wreath for Byron's tomb--and a sovereign--and hung it above the tablet, placed on the damp and dingy wall by his sister. Well then, the old people who preside over the little old church did not like it--you see my bargain with the old man is that he is to have a sovereign a year to keep the wreath there as long as he lives (or I have sovereigns)--and he faithfully refused to take down the wreath, but nailed it to the wall. Then the little-souled people appealed to the Bishop. And what has the Bishop done? What has the Bishop said? Not a word. But he has sent another wreath to be nailed alongside of my wreath from California.
O my poet! Worshipped where the world is glorious with the fire and the blood of youth! Yet here in your own home -- ah well! The old eternal truth of Christ....but why, say the truth of Christ? Better say the words of Christ; and that means eternal truth....I have not told any one here that I write verses....Byron sang in the voice of a god: and see what they say of him. But they may receive me. "No prophet is without honor, save in his own land," is the language of the text I believe.