The Venetian bracelet the lost Pleiad, a history of the lyre, and other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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THE NAMELESS GRAVE. |
 | The Venetian bracelet |  |
225
THE NAMELESS GRAVE.
A nameless grave,—there is no stone
To sanctify the dead:
O'er it the willow droops alone,
With only wild flowers spread.
To sanctify the dead:
O'er it the willow droops alone,
With only wild flowers spread.
“Oh, there is nought to interest here,
No record of a name,
A trumpet call upon the ear,
High on the roll of fame.
No record of a name,
A trumpet call upon the ear,
High on the roll of fame.
226
“I will not pause beside a tomb
Where nothing calls to mind
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom,
Or elevate mankind;—
Where nothing calls to mind
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom,
Or elevate mankind;—
“No glorious memory to efface
The stain of meaner clay;
No intellect whose heavenly trace
Redeem'd our earth:—away!”
The stain of meaner clay;
No intellect whose heavenly trace
Redeem'd our earth:—away!”
Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise
On youth's ambitious pride;
But I will sit and moralise
This lowly stone beside.
On youth's ambitious pride;
But I will sit and moralise
This lowly stone beside.
227
Here thousands might have slept, whose name
Had been to thee a spell,
To light thy flashing eyes with flame,—
To bid thy young heart swell.
Had been to thee a spell,
To light thy flashing eyes with flame,—
To bid thy young heart swell.
Here might have been a warrior's rest,
Some chief who bravely bled,
With waving banner, sculptured crest,
And laurel on his head.
Some chief who bravely bled,
With waving banner, sculptured crest,
And laurel on his head.
That laurel must have had its blood,
That blood have caused its tear,—
Look on the lovely solitude—
What! wish for warfare here!
That blood have caused its tear,—
Look on the lovely solitude—
What! wish for warfare here!
228
A poet might have slept,—what! he
Whose restless heart first wakes
Its life-pulse into melody,
Then o'er it pines and breaks?—
Whose restless heart first wakes
Its life-pulse into melody,
Then o'er it pines and breaks?—
He who hath sung of passionate love,
His life a feverish tale:—
Oh! not the nightingale, the dove
Would suit this quiet vale.
His life a feverish tale:—
Oh! not the nightingale, the dove
Would suit this quiet vale.
See, I have named your favourite two,—
Each had been glad to crave
Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew,
And such a nameless grave!
Each had been glad to crave
Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew,
And such a nameless grave!
| The Venetian bracelet | |