No sound save the rush of the river; There's only the sound of the lone While soft falls the dew on the face sentry's tread of the dead — The picket's off duty forever! ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. MORTALITY, behold and fear Where from their pulpits seal'd with They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed Here are sands, ignoble things, |