The Catacombs

Nicholas Michell

There, too, descend, and by pale torch-light tread
The winding vaults of Rome's unnumbered dead,
Where early Christians from their foes withdrew,
Dropped Sorrow's tear, yet holy rapture knew.
Mysterious catacombs! a world below,
More calm than ours, with less perchance of woe,
The silent citizens for ever there
Freed from turmoil, hard want, and harrowing care;
Ambition's phantom glides not through those caves,
But angels watch a myriad martyrs' graves.