Poems (Rowe)/Verona
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VERONA
THE glory of the Scaliger has passed,
The Capuletti, Montague, are naught;
Yet still two lovers hold their sway? all fraught
With breath of magic, whilst true love may last
Fair Juliet sleeps in old Verona's town,
The hapless victim of an ill-starred love.
Her soul as pure as any white-winged dove,
So brief a time she wore her marriage crown.
Luckless in life, so, in this little space
Thy rest is troubled by the vulgar herd,
Who desecrate thy tomb with foolish word
By this, to honour thy last resting-place!
Not thus shalt thou remembered be, O Sweet!
But by the lips of lovers when they meet.
The Capuletti, Montague, are naught;
Yet still two lovers hold their sway? all fraught
With breath of magic, whilst true love may last
Fair Juliet sleeps in old Verona's town,
The hapless victim of an ill-starred love.
Her soul as pure as any white-winged dove,
So brief a time she wore her marriage crown.
Luckless in life, so, in this little space
Thy rest is troubled by the vulgar herd,
Who desecrate thy tomb with foolish word
By this, to honour thy last resting-place!
Not thus shalt thou remembered be, O Sweet!
But by the lips of lovers when they meet.