Peace to the silent dead!
Peace to your voiceless sleep — pale race of men!
Gathered from sea and land, from hill and glen
To fill the same cold bed.

A countless throng are ye!
Men of the ancient time; peasant and king,
Whose fiery passions made the earth to ring
— Whose din shook land and sea.

Peace to your quiet sleep!
Your arms of terror are o'erspread with rust;
Your giant-frames are mingled with the dust;
— Your rest is long and deep.

Peace to the dead of Rome.
Empress of heathen time; thy pomp hath fled
As fades the mist around the mountain head
When the warm light doth come.

Kings — that did scourge your lands,
And ye whose glory ne'er hath had a stain,
There's but one voice can call ye up again,
— Sleep till that voice commands.

Who doth not bless the dead?
Is there a heart that throbs not at the name,
Of some long-perished friend; whose deathless fame
In his own breast is treasured.

Ask of the feeble one
That falters by the path; the aged man,
With head bowed down to earth, and forehead wan,
If he doth weep for none!

Oft in the toil of life,
When hard beset with grief; we love to turn
And think of those who'll ne'er again return,
— The brother — son — or wife.

How solemn is the grave!
Oh! there's a warning in the death-quenched eye,
And pale, pale lip; they tell us we must die,
The fair — the good — the brave.