From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb!
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove—
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train;
Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead,
Phantoms of heart and brain.