The planets, all the infinite host of heaven
Are glowing on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Borean desert pierce;
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
That veil Oregan, where he hears no sound
Save his own dashings,—yet the dead are there;
And millions in these solitudes, since first