Who, then, was Cestius,

      And what is he to me?—

Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous

      One thought alone brings he.

      I can recall no word

      Of anything he did;

For me he is a man who died and was interred

      To leave a pyramid

      Whose purpose was exprest

      Not with its first design,

Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest

      Two countrymen of mine.

      Cestius in life, maybe,

      Slew, breathed out threatening;

I know not.  This I know: in death all silently

      He does a kindlier thing,

      In beckoning pilgrim feet

      With marble finger high

To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,

      Those matchless singers lie . . .

      —Say, then, he lived and died

      That stones which bear his name

Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;

      It is an ample fame.