Welcome to PhiloLogic |
home | the ARTFL project | download | documentation | sample databases | |
Sigourney, L. H. (Lydia Howard), 1791-1865 [1848], Water-drops (Robert Carter, New York) [word count] [eaf353]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
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
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
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.
Sigourney, L. H. (Lydia Howard), 1791-1865 [1848], Water-drops (Robert Carter, New York) [word count] [eaf353]. |