Water-drops :: :: University of Virginia Library

Here sleep'st thou, wife of Crassus?
Thy proud tomb
O'ermastereth Time,—mocking with mighty walls,
And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers,
His ill-dissembled wrath.
Soft, drooping shades,—
The dark, columnar cypress, the fair leaves
Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath
Close clustering, lend their tracery to enrich
Thy sepulchre. Yet hast thou left no trace
On History's tablet; and in vain we ask
Yon voiceless stones of thee.
Was hoarded wealth
Thine idol, like thy husband's? Didst thou vaunt
His venal honors, and exalt the power
Of the triumvir,—in thy purple robes
Presiding at his feasts,—to every lip
Pressing the goblet, even while Rome was sick
With pomp and revel?—Or in secret cell,
To thy Penates breath the pagan prayer
In trembling, for his sake?—Or last in weeds

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Of solitary widowhood, deplore
His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts?
There is no record on you massy walls,
Of thy last deeds. Even thy sarcophagus
Is rifled, and the golden urn that locked
Thy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe
For the bold robber.
Thy Patrician dust—
How doth it differ from the household slave's,
Who, 'neath thy bidding, at the distaff wrought?
Or doomed to sterner toil, in ponderous vase
Bore the cool Martian waters for thy wine?
How vain to question thus thy gorgeous tomb,
False to its trust!
The thick-ribb'd arch of rock
Lays claim to immortality; but dust,—
Man's dust, must yield each element a part,
To pay Creation's loan. Nor can he cling!
To the brief memory of his shadowy race,
Save through his deeds.
Oh woman!—nurse of man!
Make not thy bed beneath the imposing arch,
Or sky-crowned pyramid. Enshrine thyself,
With all thy buried virtues, in the heart
Of him who loves thee. Be thine epitaph

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The graces of thine offspring, and the thanks
Of those who mourn.
So shalt thou miss the pomp
Of this world's triumph, and thy noteless grave
Be glorious at the resurrection morn.