Bartholomew Dowling

"We meet neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare; As they shout back our peals of laughter It seems that the dead are there. Ho! stand to your glasses steady! 'T is all we have left to prize. A cup to the dead already,— Hurrah for the next that dies!"

"Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul can sting no more?"