Speak gently, gently tread,
And breathe one sigh profound;
In memory of the dead
Each spot is holy ground.
Theirs was no common doom,
And some were young to die;
Within this narrow tomb
Women and infants lie.
They drank the bitter cup
Of fear and anguish deep,
Ere they were rendered up
To death’s unruffled sleep.
Meek be our sorrow here,
For them we could not save;
And soft be Pity’s tear
Above the children’s grave.
Quenched here be passion’s heat,
Let strife and vengeance cease;
Within their garden sweet
Leave them to rest in peace.
For Nature hath made clean
This place of human guilt;
And now the turf is green
Where English blood was spilt.
Earth’s healing hand hath spread
Her flowers about their tomb;
Around the quiet dead
Trees wave and roses bloom.
Then lift not wrathful hands,
But pass in silence by;
Their carven Angel stands
And watches where they lie.
William Trego Webb.