Not, perhaps, would one be left alive.
That those hearts, now bounding in the glory
Of existence, would be hushed and cold;
Not their very names preserved in story,
Nor upon fame’s chronicle enrolled.
All to earth, their proper home, departed;
Light heart, strong hand, all gone to kindred clay;
And, in their vacant room, a new race started,
Careless of the millions past away.
Well might weep he—well might we, in weeping,