 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
BYRON IN THE CERTOSA CEMETERY.
“I found such a pretty epitaph, or rather two; one was,—‘Martini Luigi, implora pace.’ The other ‘Lucrezia Picini, implora eterna quiete.’ That was all, but it appeared to me that these two or three words comprise and compress all that can be said on the subject. They contain doubt, hope, and humility. Let me have the ‘Implora pace,’ and nothing else, for my epitaph.”
Letter of Byron to Mr. Hoppner in 1819.
Implora pace!” 'tis the cry
Of some meek child of want and care
Whose life has been a long, long sigh,
A weary struggle with despair.
“Implora Pace!” 'tis the prayer
Low breathed from out a contrite heart,
When, turning from the things that are,
Through death's dark shadows to depart.
Of some meek child of want and care
Whose life has been a long, long sigh,
A weary struggle with despair.
“Implora Pace!” 'tis the prayer
Low breathed from out a contrite heart,
When, turning from the things that are,
Through death's dark shadows to depart.
“Implora Pace!” hark! the groan
Bursts from the quivering lip of one
Who proudly stands on earth alone,
'Mid many stars the only sun.
He bends above the lonely tomb;
Dark thoughts have dimmed his flashing eye,
His brow wears sorrow's heaviest gloom;
Then list his agonizing cry:—
Bursts from the quivering lip of one
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'Mid many stars the only sun.
He bends above the lonely tomb;
Dark thoughts have dimmed his flashing eye,
His brow wears sorrow's heaviest gloom;
Then list his agonizing cry:—
“‘Implora Pace!’ I have quaffed
From pleasure's wine-cup mantling high,
But never in the maddening draught
Was found the peace for which I sigh.
In love, earth's best deceit, I sought
The rest for which my bosom pined;
With bliss, deep bliss, the dream was fraught,
Its madness still remains behind.
From pleasure's wine-cup mantling high,
But never in the maddening draught
Was found the peace for which I sigh.
In love, earth's best deceit, I sought
The rest for which my bosom pined;
With bliss, deep bliss, the dream was fraught,
Its madness still remains behind.
“‘Implora Pace!’ I have run
With speed unslackened glory's race;
In the world's wondering sight have won
Its bays my boyish brow to grace;
My name is heard from every tongue,
My words on every heart imprest,
My strains in every clime are sung,
Yet fame brings not my spirit rest.
With speed unslackened glory's race;
In the world's wondering sight have won
Its bays my boyish brow to grace;
My name is heard from every tongue,
My words on every heart imprest,
My strains in every clime are sung,
Yet fame brings not my spirit rest.
“‘Implora Pace!’ I have tried
All that earth knows of joy or pain,
Its bliss, its woe, its hopes, its pride,
All, all alike, are worse than vain.
Withered and old in heart I stand
Upon the brink of death's dark wave,
And hope, aye hope no better land
Awaits the soul beyond the grave.
All that earth knows of joy or pain,
Its bliss, its woe, its hopes, its pride,
All, all alike, are worse than vain.
Withered and old in heart I stand
Upon the brink of death's dark wave,
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Awaits the soul beyond the grave.
“‘Implora Pace!’ all I seek
Is rest—the soul's eternal rest.
Thou mouldering clay beneath me, speak!
Say, will death satisfy my quest?
Thou canst not tell—I dare not think—
Child-like at phantom forms I quake;
Yet fain of death's dark stream would drink,
My feverish spirit's thirst to slake.”
Is rest—the soul's eternal rest.
Thou mouldering clay beneath me, speak!
Say, will death satisfy my quest?
Thou canst not tell—I dare not think—
Child-like at phantom forms I quake;
Yet fain of death's dark stream would drink,
My feverish spirit's thirst to slake.”
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |