The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings

Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Save its own dashings,—yet—the dead are there,

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw