Rome
Who, then, was Cestius,And what is he to me?—Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinousOne thought alone brings he.
I can recall no wordOf anything he did;For me he is a man who died and was interredTo leave a pyramid
Whose purpose was exprestNot with its first design,Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their restTwo countrymen of mine.
Cestius in life, maybe,Slew, breathed out threatening;I know not. This I know: in death all silentlyHe does a kindlier thing,
In beckoning pilgrim feetWith marble finger highTo where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,Those matchless singers lie . . .
—Say, then, he lived and diedThat stones which bear his nameShould mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;It is an ample fame.
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