Are borne away where dim Oblivion weaves
Her shroud, within the rayless halls of death;
Still with a prophet gaze I'll thread my way,
And wake the giant spectres of the tomb;
With fancy's wand I'll chase the phantoms gray,
And burst the shadowy seal that shrouds their doom.
Thus shall the past its misty lore unfold,
And bid my soul on nature's ladder rise,
Till I shall meet some clasping hand, whose hold
Shall draw my homesick spirit to the skies.