Oh! do not think that thee I can forget:
Though all the Centuries should o'er me roll—
Though Space should spread more far than Pole from Pole,
Or star from furthest star betwixt us; yet,
I still would hold thee in my heart's core set:
More rare than rarest Queens whom Kings extol
When Death hath throned them high above regret.
Through endless Time when Memory the stone
Rolls back from silent years long sepulchred,
To call the Past forth from the sullen tomb,
Howe'er far 'yond her voice all else hath flown,
Shalt thou appear—her living summons heard—
Fresh as Eternal Spring in all thy radiant bloom.