Within the church-yard of an ancient fane I stand beside a time-worn tomb the while I mourn how naked, gaunt, and racked with pain Seem now the ruins of that noble pile. The live oaks gray in sacerdotal dress Of woven moss, bow to their priestly task, Their aged fingers seeming here to bless This hallowed shrine, and musing thus, I ask: "Where all the people thou hast known? Pray tell! The homes, plantations, where they once did dwell? Is no kin here still bearing those fair names Which etcher's chisel scarcely now proclaims?" And as I stand by faded lettered stone, A knell the trembling fingers toll: "Gone! Gone!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SWITZERLAND by JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES MR. FLOOD'S PARTY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE OUTLAW'S SONG by JOANNA BAILLIE A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 13 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT OLD LADY NECESSITY by BERTON BRALEY THE CHRISTENING by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |