Classic Poem

Low lies the grave wherein a Stranger sleeps!
Nought comes to mourn beside that humble ground;
Save when, in melancholy Autumn, creeps
The sullen Adriatic round and round;
Or when the sea-bird, with his wings unbound,
Screams out a dirge, and toward the mountains sweeps
Or when a dead man floats across the deeps;
Or clouds, blown landward, pass without a sound!
All gloom forsakes the spot whereon she died:
The merry marriage-bells send forth their chimes;
And joy flies upwards as in ancient times:
Ah, no!— One tender heart, to hers allied,
In sorrow sweeter than the poet's rhymes,
Sings a lament, above the stranger's grave,
Its murmurs mingling with the ever-murmuring wave.