“The architect was hired
And came here on smart summons as desired,
But never the descendant came to tell him
What he required.”
And so the tomb remained
Untouched, untended, crumbling, weather-stained,
And though the one-time foe was fain to right it
He still refrained.
“I’ll set about it when
I am sure he’ll come no more. Best wait till then.”
But so it was that never the stranger entered
That city again.
And the well-meaner died
While waiting tremulously unsatisfied
That no return of the family’s foreign scion
Would still betide.
And many years slid by,
And active church-restorers cast their eye
Upon the ancient garth and hoary building
The tomb stood nigh.
And when they had scraped each wall,
Pulled out the stately pews, and smartened all,
“It will be well,” declared the spruce church-warden,
“To overhaul
“And broaden this path where shown;
Nothing prevents it but an old tombstone
Pertaining to a family forgotten,
Of deeds unknown.
“Their names can scarce be read,
Depend on’t, all who care for them are dead.”
So went the tomb, whose shards were as path-paving
Distributed.
Over it and about
Men’s footsteps beat, and wind and water-spout,
Until the names, aforetime gnawed by weathers,
Were quite worn out.
So that no sage can say
In pensive progress near where they decay,
“This stone records a luminous line whose talents
Told in their day.”