That sweeps thy millions to the tomb

Hangs darkly o'er thee,—and the train

That gaily throng the open plain,

Shall never raise those laughing eyes

To welcome summer's cloudless skies;

Shall never see the golden beam

Of day light up the wood and stream,

[Pg 41]

Or the rich and ripened corn

Waving in the breath of morn,

Or their rosy children twine

Chaplets of the clustering vine:—

The bow is bent! the shaft is sped!

Who shall wail above the dead?

What arrests their frantic course?

Back recoils the startled horse,

And the stifling sob of fear

Like a knell appals the ear!

Lips are quivering—cheeks are pale—

Palsied limbs all trembling fail;

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