They to the verge have followed that they love,
And on the insuperable threshold stand;
With cherished names its speechless calm reprove, 55
And stretch in the abyss their ungrasped hand.
But vainly there the mourners seek relief
From silenced voice, and shapes, Decay has swept,
Till Death himself shall medicine their grief,
Closing their eyes by those o’er whom they wept. 60
All that have died, the Earth’s whole race, repose,
Where Death collects his treasures, heap on heap;