They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They rejoiced, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died! Aye, they died. We, things that are now,
That work on the turf that lies on their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain—
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.