YON stately tomb that seeks the sky, | |
| Erected to the glorious dead, | |
| Through whose high arches sweeps the sigh | |
| The night-winds heave when day has fled; | |
| |
| How fair its pillared stories rise | 5 |
| ’Gainst yon blue firmament so pure; | |
| Fair as they met admiring eyes, | |
| Long ages past, they still endure. | |
| |
| Yes, many a race hath left the earth | |
| Since first this mausoleum rose; | 10 |
| So many, that the name or birth | |
| Of dead or founder no one knows. | |
| |
| The sculptured pictures, all may see, | |
| Were by a skilful artist wrought; | |
| But, Time! the secret rests with thee, | 15 |
| Which to unravel men have sought. | |
| |
| Of whom were they, the honored dead, | |
| Whose memory love would here record? | |
| Lift up the veil, so long o’erspread, | |
| And tell whose dust yon fane doth guard. | 20 |
| |
| Name those whose love outlived the grave | |
| And sought to give for aye to fame | |
| Mementos of the good and brave, | |
| Of whom thou hast effaced the name. | |
| |
| We know but that they lived and died, | 25 |
| No more this stately tomb can tell: | |
| Here come and read a lesson, Pride, | |
| This monument can give so well. | |
| |
| They lived, they hoped, they suffered, loved, | |
| As all of earth have ever done; | 30 |
| Were oft by wild ambition moved, | |
| And basked, perchance, ’neath glory’s sun. | |
| |
| They deemed that they should leave behind | |
| Undying names. Yet mark this fane; | |
| For whom it rose, by whom designed, | 35 |
| Learned antiquaries search in vain. | |
| |
| Still doth it wear the form it wore | |
| Through the dim lapse of bygone age; | |
| Triumph of art in days of yore, | |
| Whose history fills the classic page. | 40 |
| |
| To honor victors it is said | |
| ’T was raised, though none their names can trace; | |
| It stands as monument instead, | |
| Unto each long-forgotten race, | |
| |
| Who came, like me, to gaze and brood | 45 |
| Upon it in this lonely spot, | |
| Their minds with pensive thoughts imbued, | |
| That heroes could be thus forgot. | |
| |
| Yet still the wind a requiem sighs, | |
| And the blue sky above it weeps; | 50 |
| The sun pours down its radiant dyes, | |
| Though none can tell who ’neath it sleeps. | |
| |
| And seasons roll, and centuries pass, | |
| And still unchanged thou keep’st thy place; | |
| While we, like shadows in a glass, | 55 |
| Soon glide away, and leave no trace. | |
| |
| And yon proud arch, the victor’s meed, | |
| Is nameless as the neighboring tomb: | |
| Victor, and dead, the Fates decreed | |
| Your memory to oblivion’s gloom. | 60 |
| |
