Chapter XLIV

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They all have passed away, as thou must pass,
Who now art wandering westward where they trod--
An atom in the mighty human mass,
Who live and die. No more. The grave-green sod,
Can but be made the greener o'er the best,
A flattering epitaph may tell the rest--
While they who come, as come these onward waves,
Forget who sleep below, and trample on their graves.