Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/82

52 But bid it flow as now—until it glides

Into the number of the nameless tides.

What is this Death?—a quiet of the heart?

The whole of that of which we are a part?

For Life is but a vision—what I see

Of all which lives alone is Life to me,

And being so—the absent are the dead,

Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread

A dreary shroud around us, and invest

With sad remembrancers our hours of rest.

The absent are the dead—for they are cold,

And ne'er can be what once we did behold;

And they are changed, and cheerless,—or if yet

The unforgotten do not all forget,

Since thus divided—equal must it be

If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;

It may be both—but one day end it must

In the dark union of insensate dust.

The under-earth inhabitants—are they

But mingled millions decomposed to clay?

The ashes of a thousand ages spread

Wherever Man has trodden or shall tread?

Or do they in their silent cities dwell

Each in his incommunicative cell?

Or have they their own language? and a sense

Of breathless being?—darkened and intense

As Midnight in her solitude?—Oh Earth!

Where are the past?—and wherefore had they birth?

The dead are thy inheritors—and we

But bubbles on thy surface; and the key

Of thy profundity is in the Grave,

The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,

Where I would walk in spirit, and behold

Our elements resolved to things untold,