Ah, no! Let the march be soft, but glad
As a Sabbath evening’s breeze,—
For why should the heart of man be sad
When he thinks of these? Of these?
A march for the Dead—the awful Dead—
Like mountain peaks, sublime,
Which show, as they rise, some River’s length,
They mark the stream of Time.
How dread they appear as each lies in his tomb,
With the earthy worm revelling there—