They lie all around me, countless in their number,
Each martyr with his palm.
No torture now can rack them: safe they slumber,
Hushed in eternal calm!
I read the rude inscriptions, written weeping,
At night with hurried tears.
Yet what a tale they tell! their secret keeping
Through all these thousand years.
"In Pace." Yes, at peace. By sword, or fire,
Or cross, or lictor's rod—
Virgin, or matron; youth, or gray-haired sire: