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