The dreadful curtain, starless, spreads
Upon cold vale of dusty beds.
It claims and chains
Its silent sleepers.
What still, small breath disturbs the shroud—
Lays bare pale remnants ’neath the ground—
To brush the dust
From off the sleepers.
What dew of light through dark prevails—
As ratt’ling echoes fill the vale—
To stir and spur:
“Awake, O sleepers!”
Rent tremb’ling, darkness dies away
As shimm’ring figures glide tow’rd day,
Their praises raised,
No longer sleepers.