Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere,
And pour their woe the loaded air along.
“They to the verge have follow’d what they love,
And on th’ insuperable threshold stand;
With cherish’d names its speechless calm reprove,
And stretch in the abyss their ungrasp’d hand.
“But vainly there they seek their soul’s relief,
And of th’ obdurate Grave its prey implore;
Till Death himself shall medicine their grief,
Closing their eyes by those they wept before.