Chapter VI

I find some trace of those old walls,
Where I was born long, long ago;
I fain would stay, the whirlwind calls--
“Pass on! thy fathers sleep below,
But in their tombs no place is kept
For thee; thou still must wander on,
Nor sleep till all thy race has slept,
And all the pride of man is gone.”
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.