Classic Poem

The white-rose garland at her feet,
— The crown of laurel at her head,
Her noble life on earth complete,
— Lay her in the last low bed
For the slumber calm and deep:
" He giveth His beloved sleep. "

Soldiers find their fittest grave
— In the field whereon they died;
So her spirit pure and brave
— Leaves the clay it glorified
To the land for which she fought
With such grand impassioned thought.

Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome,
— She in well-loved Tuscan earth;
Finding all their death's long home
— Far from their old home of birth.
Italy, you hold in trust
Very sacred English dust.

Therefore this one prayer I breathe, —
— That you yet may worthy prove
Of the heirlooms they bequeath
— Who have loved you with such love:
Fairest land while land of slaves
Yields their free souls no fit graves.