There for a resting-place the traveller stays,
For shade and for repose: the gate now gain’d,
Awhile the vacillating foot delays
To enter, as if fearing it profaned
Too bold the mansions of the dead. No word,
No sound, no murmur. It would seem that there
Ev’n Echo’s self is mute, no answer heard!
Slowly I through the narrow streets repair
Without a human footstep! Porticos
And plazas by no living beings trod,