At Rest

“‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said, “‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great, And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fate Hath made us enemies. If I were dead, And buried deep with grave-mould on my head, I still believe that, came he soon or late Where I was lying in my last estate, My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!” The slow years passed; and one fair summer night, When the low sun was reddening all the west, I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright, Lying so near each other that the crest Of the same wave touched each with amber light. But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest!