One quiet house I yet could name,
Where last of all, I'll admittance claim;
Many the guests that have knocked before,
But still—in the grave—there's room for more.
[Illustration: AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND]
AUGUST VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND
* * * * *
THE PILGRIM BEFORE ST. JUST'S[60] (1819)
'Tis night, and tempests whistle o'er the moor;
Oh, Spanish father, ope the door!
Deny me not the little boon I crave,
Thine order's vesture, and a grave!
Grant me a cell within thy convent-shrine—
Half of this world, and more, was mine;
The head that to the tonsure now stoops down
Was circled once by many a crown;
The shoulders fretted now with shirt of hair
Did once the imperial ermine wear.
Now am I as the dead, e'er death is come,
And sink in ruins like old Rome.
* * * * *
THE GRAVE OF ALARIC[61] (1820)
On Busento's grassy banks a muffled chorus echoes nightly,
While the swirling eddies answer and the wavelets ripple lightly.