Classic Poem

Beneath this arch, I, Tabnit, lie at rest;
I, Tabnit, Priest of Ashtoreth, and King
Of Sidon where the tideless waters swing.
O man, with hands and footsteps all unblest,
Who comest, an unseasonable guest,
Depart in haste, nor o'er my ashes fling
Thy furtive shadow. Go, nor dream I bring
Silver and gold for thy unhallowed quest.

Else,—if this screed thou connest, and dost yet
Presume upon my slumber,—be there shed
The curse of Ashtoreth on thy moonstruck head;
Thee may the living in thy life forget,
No seed in fields of childhood mayest thou set,
Nor couch at last among the peaceful dead.