When in the darkness of the grave they stay,
By our attack brought low,
The loathèd dance through which in raiment black we go:
Antistrophe III
And through the ill that leaves him dazed and blind,
He still is all unconscious that he falls,
So thick a cloud enthrals
The vision of his mind:
And Rumour with a voice of wailing calls,
And tells of gathering gloom