A march for the Dead—the dreamless Dead
Of the tomb and the chancel aisle,
Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread
Waves round in the holy pile:—
Let the chimes be low as the awful breath
Of the midnight winds that creep,
With a pulse as faint as the step of Death,
O’er the chambers of the deep,
When the stars are in a solemn noon
Like o’er-wearied watchers there,