And the floor gave back a muffled tone
From the couches of the dead:
The silent many that round him lay,
The crown’d and helm’d that were,
The haughty chiefs of the war array—
Each in his sepulchre!
But no dim warning of time or fate
That youth’s flush’d hopes could chill;
He moved through the trophies of buried state
With each proud pulse throbbing still.