“Coincident design!
Though these my father’s enemies were and mine,
I nourished a like purpose—to restore them
Each letter and line.”
“Such magnanimity
Is now not needed, sir; for you will see
That since I am here, a thing like this is, plainly,
Best done by me.”
The other bowed, and left,
Crestfallen in sentiment, as one bereft
Of some fair object he had been moved to cherish,
By hands more deft.
And as he slept that night
The phantoms of the ensepulchred stood up-right
Before him, trembling that he had set him seeking
Their charnel-site.
And, as unknowing his ruth,
Asked as with terrors founded not on truth
Why he should want them. “Ha,” they hollowly hackered,
“You come, forsooth,
“By stealth to obliterate
Our graven worth, our chronicle, our date,
That our descendant may not gild the record
Of our past state,
“And that no sage may say
In pensive progress near where we decay:
‘This stone records a luminous line whose talents
Told in their day.’”
Upon the morrow he went
And to that town and churchyard never bent
His ageing footsteps till, some twelvemonths onward,
An accident
Once more detained him there;
And, stirred by hauntings, he must needs repair
To where the tomb was. Lo, it stood still wasting
In no man’s care.
“The travelled man you met
The last time,” said the sexton, “has not yet
Appeared again, though wealth he had in plenty.
—Can he forget?