Round Death’s black banner throng’d, in human thought!

By thousands, now, resigning their last breath,

And calling thee—wert thou so wise to hear!

By tombs o’er tombs arising; human earth

Ejected, to make room for—human earth;

The monarch’s terror! and the sexton’s trade!

By pompous obsequies that shun the day,

The torch funereal, and the nodding plume,

Which makes poor man’s humiliation proud;

Boast of our ruin! triumph of our dust! 2130