At The Grave Of Charles Lamb, In Edmonton

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Not here, O teeming City, was it meet
  Thy lover, thy most faithful, should repose,
  But where the multitudinous life-tide flows
Whose ocean-murmur was to him more sweet
Than melody of birds at morn, or bleat
  Of flocks in Spring-time, _there_ should Earth enclose
  His earth, amid thy thronging joys and woes,
There, 'neath the music of thy million feet.
In love of thee this lover knew no peer.
  Thine eastern or thy western fane had made
  Fit habitation for his noble shade.
Mother of mightier, nurse of none more dear,
Not here, in rustic exile, O not here,
  Thy Elia like an alien should be laid!

© William Watson