Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Fourth, CXXXVII :

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain :

My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,

And my frame perish even in conquering pain ;

But there is that within me which shall tire

Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ;

Something unearthly, which they deem not of,                                               

Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre,

Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move

In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.