All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice,
[pg 77] That makest dead men understand,
The very dead in graves rejoice:
Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,
Shall always live, for him that looks.
Many as leaves from autumn trees
The years shall flutter from on high,
And with their multiple decease
The souls of men shall fall and die,
Yet, while the empires turn to dust,