For vanished years will be the marble reared
To mark my dust amid the countless throng
Wherewith the Spoiler strews the land and sea?
Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man’s last friend,
Hope, flies the tomb; and dim forgetfulness
Wraps in his rayless night all mortal things:
Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes
Its tribute—and o’er man, his sepulchres,
His being’s lingering traces, and the relics
Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads.