He belonged to a higher order of
spirits. As a boy he had not bartered the music of his soul for
Eastern languages and the Rent Law; and as an old man he would not sit
in state with corpses faintly animated by rupees.
To the last he mocked promotion; he mocked, till the dread mocker laid
mocking fingers on his liver, and till gibe and laughter were silenced
for evermore. So the Collector died, the merry Collector; and "where
shall we bury the merry Collector?" became the last problem for his
friends to deal with. I was in far away lands at the time with another
friend of his--we mourned for the Collector.
We would have buried him in soft summer weather under sweet arbute
trees, near the shore of some murmuring Italian sea. The west wind
should whisper its grief over his grave for ever:--
"Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159