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. |