By sounds of holy minstrelsey? And they
Of generations, each succeeding each,
Through the long current of a thousand years,
Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,
And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soil
The grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”
“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,
And by such speaking we in thought forego
The glorious truths of immortality;
The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?