Classic Poem

Who sleeps in silence 'neath this mound?
Whose dust does here repose?
Is it unholy, sinful ground, —
And blood upon the rose?

Does there a hero sleep beneath?
Some chief of spotless fame?
The flowrets here no fragrance breathe,
No marble speaks his name!

Does an historian's wither'd form,
Here lie so dark and low?
I hear no requiem but the storm,
No mournful sound of wo.

Is it a humble, Christian child,
Who free from care lies here?
Around this spot, thus drear and wild —
And not one friendly tear!

No, — the dust that moulders here enshrin'd,
Was here an infant heart, —
A wreath by beauty's hand entwin'd
Did love to it impart.

The parents wept about its grave
And friends its loss did mourn;
But tears could not their darling save,
It died, — they thought it wrong.