Lord Byron — Churchills Grave & A Fact Literally Rendered

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed The Comet of a season, and I saw The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed        &nbspWith not the less of sorrow and of awe On that neglected turf and quiet stone, With name no clearer than the names unknown, Which lay unread around it; and I asked        &nbspThe Gardener of that ground, why it might be That for this plant strangers his memory tasked,        &nbspThrough the thick deaths of half a century; And thus he answered—"Well, I do not know Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; He died before my day of Sextonship,        &nbspAnd I had not the digging of this grave." And is this all? I thought,—and do we rip        &nbspThe veil of Immortality, and crave I know not what of honour and of light Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? So soon, and so successless? As I said, The Architect of all on which we tread, For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought,        &nbspWere it not that all life must end in one, Of which we are but dreamers;—as he caught        &nbspAs 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, Thus spoke he,—"I believe the man of whom You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, Was a most famous writer in his day, And therefore travellers step from out their way To pay him honour,—and myself whate'er        &nbspYour honour pleases:"—then most pleased I shookl        &nbspFrom out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare So much but inconveniently:—Ye smile, I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. You are the fools, not I—for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a softened eye, On that old Sexton's natural homily, In which there was Obscurity and Fame,— The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.