And gazing down in pride
On the spectres as they glide
Through the valley long and wide, —
On the spectres all so pale

In vestments whiter than the snow, As through the dim defile they go With melancholy wail.

On tramps the funeral file; and now
The weeping ones have passed,
A throng succeeding, loftier
And statelier than the last,
The Monarchs of the Past!
And upon the solemn blast,
Wave their plumes and pennons high,
And loud their mournful marches

sweep

Up from the valley dark and deep To the over-arching sky.

And now the Cycle-buried years
Stride on in stern array:
Before each band the Centuries,
With beards of silver gray,
The Marshals of the Day,

In silence pass away;

And behind them come the Hours
And Minutes, who, as on they go,
Are swinging steadily to and fro
The incense round in showers.

Behold the bier, the ebony bier,
On sinewy shoulders borne,
Of many a dim, forgotten Year
From Primal Times forlorn.
All weary and all worn,

With their ancient garments torn
And their beards as white as Lear's,
Lo! how they tremble as they
tread,

Mourning above the marble dead,
In agonies of tears!

How very wan the old man looks!
As wasted and as pale

As some dim ghost of shadowy days
In legendary tale.

God give the sleeper hail !

And the world hath much to wail
That his ears no more may hear;
For, with his palms across his
breast,

He lieth in eternal rest
Along his stately bier.