Beneath the hand of greedy fate 125

Are falling fast.

The gloomy retinue of death

In march unceasing hurries on;

The grieving line unending hastes

To the place of death. Space fails the throng.

For, though seven gates stand open wide, 130

Still for the crowding funerals

'Tis not enough; for everywhere

Is carnage seen, and death treads hard