Classic Poem

Who slumbers in this lonely spot,
By all neglected and forgot?
No chill neglect, no cruel woes,
Can now disturb his calm repose.

No sculptured marble bears his name,
To tell of friendship, love, or fame;
But flowers in pity o'er him wave,
And whisper—'tis the stranger's grave.

The stars that gem the arch of night,
Here shed a melancholy light;
Yet comes no form with solemn tread,
To weep in silence o'er the dead.

His requiem the fitful moan
Of winds that breathe a hollow tone;
And through the dark green boughs that wave,
They whisper—'tis the stranger's grave.

The stranger's grave! it matters not
If by the world he is forgot;
As calm and peaceful is his sleep
Though no friends mourn, and no friends weep.

And yet where love and memory weep,
Would I be laid in death's long sleep;
Yes, looking up to heaven, I crave
That mine be not a stranger's grave.