Few are the graves, for here no populous city
Feeds with its myriad lives the hungry Fates,
While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity,
Crowd through the open gates.
Here Death is rarer, yet full many a token
Tells of his presence, on these grassy slopes,—
The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken,
Symbol of shattered hopes.
Here sleep brave men, who in the deadly quarrel
Fought for their country, and their life-blood poured,