Poems Sigourney 1827/Tomb of Cecilia Metella
TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA.
Where art thou, wife of Crassus, whose proud tomb
O'ermasters Time, mocking with towering walls,
And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers
His ill-dissembled wrath?—Soft, drooping shades,
The dark, columnar cypress, the pale leaves
Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath
Close clustering, lend their tracery to make rich
Thy sepulchre.—But thou hast left no trace
On history's tablet, and in vain we ask
These voiceless stones of thee.—
Was hoarded wealth
Thine idol, like thy husband's?—didst thou vaunt
His venal honours, and exalt the power
Of the triumvir, in thy purple robes,
Presiding at his feasts, till Rome was sick
Of pomp and revel?—or in secret cell
To thy Penates breathe the matron prayer
With trembling for his sake?—or in the grief
Of solitary widowhood, deplore
His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts?—
—There is no record on these mighty walls
Of thy lost deeds. Even thy sarcophagus
Is rifled, and the golden urn where slept
Thy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe
For the rapacious hand. Thy scattered dust,
How doth it differ from the household slave's?
Who 'neath thy bidding at the distaff wrought,
Or bent with sterner toil, in ponderous vase,
Brought the cool Martian waters, or perchance
Through sinuous mazes of embroidery's art
Guided the weary needle.
But in vain
We stand communing with the faithless tomb
That cast thee forth.—The strong-cemented 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 a shadowy race,
Save through his deeds.—
O Woman, nurse of Man!—
Make not thy grave beneath the imposing arch,
Or the drear pyramid;—enshrine thyself
Amid thy buried virtues, in the heart
Of him who loves thee, make thy monument
The graces of thine offspring, and the thanks
Of all who mourn. So shalt thou miss the pomp
Of this world's triumph, and thy noteless tomb
Be glorious in the resurrection morn.