Classic Poem

I STOOD within the cypress gloom
Where old Ferrara's dead are laid,
And mused on many a sculptured tomb,
Moss-grown and mouldering in the shade.

And there was one the eye might pass,
And careless foot might tread upon
A crumbling tablet in the grass,
With weeds and wild vines overrun.

In the dim light I stooped to trace
The lines the time-worn marble bore,
Of reverent praise or prayer for grace —
" Implora Pace! " — nothing more.

Name, fame, and rank, if any were,
Had long since vanished from the stone,
Leaving the meek, pathetic prayer,
" Peace I implore! " and this alone.