Classic Poem

O THOU that sleepest 'neath th' enamelled sward
Of that low Tuscan hill, and by thee lies
Our father, in thy tomb hast thou not heard
Amid the grass a voice that softly cries?

It is my baby boy, who hastens toward
Thy dreary gate and knocks—he with whom dies
Thy sacred name: the life thou foundest hard,
O'er-hard to bear, he too thus early flies.

Ah, no! For till the shadow thrust him dead
To your cold, cheerless shores, he knew no other
Care but to play 'mid flowers, where bright dreams shed

Their radiance o'er him. Oh, receive him, brother,
In thy dark mansions, for he turns his head
To the sweet sunlight, sobbing for his mother.