“CONJUGI CARISSIMAE”

Marble fragment, freed at last

From thy prison of the past,

By a spade-thrust brought to light

After centuries of night,—

Let me take thee in my hand,

And thy legend understand.

On thy mutilated face

It is difficult to trace

All that once was graven here;

But at least two words are clear,—

Reading still, as all agree,

“Conjugi Carissimae.”

“To my well-belovèd wife”;—

Only this; but of her life,

Rank or title, age or name,

Or the place from which she came,

Nothing further can be known

Than is taught us by this stone.

Touching words they are, which tell

Of a husband's last farewell;

Cry of a despairing heart

That has seen a wife depart

On death's dark, uncharted sea;—

“Conjugi Carissimae!”

Was this lady still a bride,

Or a matron, when she died?

Had she children? Was she fair?

Bright with joy, or bowed with care?

Ah, pathetic mystery!

“Conjugi Carissimae.”

Yet, in truth, what matters all,

Save the fact these words recall?

She was loved,— a consort mourned

In the home she had adorned;

And her husband long ago

Left the words which tell us so.

Strange, that these alone remain,—

Words of mingled love and pain!

Time, which broke or blurred the rest,

Tenderly has spared the best;

For what better could there be?

“Conjugi Carissimae.”

Ancient relic, white and pure,

May thine epitaph endure,

While the lake with dimpled smile

Mirrors this historic isle!

Precious are thy words of old,

Worthy of a script of gold!

Soon upon this island's shrine

Shalt thou like a jewel shine,—

Dearest of its treasure-trove,

Emblem of a deathless love

From its sepulchre set free,—

“Conjugi Carissimae.”