Classic Poem

What means this little grassy mound,
Rais'd in no consecrated ground,
But in the forest dell profound,
Where waves so sad and mournfully

The mountain ash its bending head?
There sleeps th' unknown, unhonour'd dead,
In his obscure and lowly bed,
Grac'd by no marks of heraldry.

Here the 'lorn wand'rer of the heath,
The forest's twilight shades beneath,
Sunk silent in the arms of death,
Far from his home and family.

No holy man, with pious care,
O'er his poor relics breath'd a prayer,
No mourner grac'd them with a tear,
No funeral bell toll'd solemnly.

Yet round this undistinguish'd tomb
The violets breathe their sweet perfume,
The eglantine's fair roses bloom
In nature's wild simplicity:

And when the gath'ring shades of night
Have chas'd the day's bright beams to flight,
And silver Luna's trembling light
Sleeps on the wave so peacefully,

Then, at that silent, solemn hour,
Oft, from her close concealed bower,
Lone Philomela loves to pour
Her strains of melting harmony.

Poor pilgrim, rest, thy wand'ring o'er,
Perplex'd by 'wild'ring thoughts no more,
The dawn thy reason will restore —
The dawn of immortality.