Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb:
O’er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove—
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train:
Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead—
Phantoms of heart and brain!
Looks from departed eyes,