Implora Pace

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.