At Rest

“‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said,
“‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great,
And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fate
Hath made us enemies. If I were dead,
And buried deep with grave-mould on my head,
I still believe that, came he soon or late
Where I was lying in my last estate,
My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!”
The slow years passed; and one fair summer night,
When the low sun was reddening all the west,
I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright,
Lying so near each other that the crest
Of the same wave touched each with amber light.
But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest!