Some level with the native clay,
250
What sleeping millions wait the sound,
"Arise, ye dead, and come away!"
Alas! they stay not for that call;
Spare me this wo! ye demons, spare!—
They come! the shrouded shadows all—
'Tis more than mortal brain can bear;
Rustling they rise, they sternly glare
At man, upheld by vital breath;