We now are passing through! I feel them part
Before, and close behind us, as we fly,
As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves
That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be
The home of Death--no voice, no sound, no sigh,
Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice
To make a lily tremble!

Spirt.

Though say'st true,
This is indeed the realm of Death,--at least
It has no more of life than what though hast
Brought here with thee,--I speak of mortal life:
We now are near the Hades of past worlds,
Whose spirits have a life which cannot die.
You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance
Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn.
Think you that he who gave to man his mind,
The undying spark that quickens his clay frame,
Would fashion from the same material
Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go
Hymning around his everlasting throne!
Giving to them a beauty which alone
Could be conceived by him, which has great hand
Alone could mould into reality,
And yet deny them what he gave to thee,
Intelligence! a thing that knows not death?
Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves,
Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides,