Quiet they lie in their shrouds of rest,

Their lids kissed close ’neath the lips of peace;Over each pulseless and painless breast

The hands lie folded and softly pressed,

As a dead dove presses a broken nest; Ah, broken hearts were the price of these!

The lips of their anguish are cold and still,

For them are the clouds and the gloom all past;No longer the woe of the world can thrill

The chords of those tender hearts, or fill

The silent dead- house! The "people’s will"

Has snapped asunder the strings at last.

"The people’s will!" Ah, in years to come,

Dearly ye’ll weep that ye did not save!

Do ye not hear now the muffled drum,

The trampling feet and the ceaseless hum,

Of the million marchers— trembling, dumb,

In their tread to a yawning, giant grave?