text:  Round that bright board say are ye _all_ assembled? Are there no other names ye count no more? Has our good custom been betray'd by others? Whom hath the cold world lured from ye away? Whose voice is silent in the call of brothers? Who is not come? Who is not with you? Say! _He_ is not come he of the curled hair He of the eye of fire and sweet-voiced numbers: Beneath Italia's myrtle-groves he slumbers; He slumbers well although no friend was there Above the lonely grave where he is sleeping A Russian line to trace with pious hand That some sad wanderer might read it weeping-- Some Russian wandering in a foreign land