@media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){}That something in us must outlive the tomb;
The ghostly realms of subterranean gloom,
Old Charon's punt-pole, and th' amphibious race
That in the Styx their croaking concert place;
And that so many thousand spirits can
Be rowed across by that grim Ferryman;
All this old-fashion'd creed our age of wit
Derides—the veriest stripling scoffs at it.
Do thou the faith that Heroes held, recall;
Be wisely credulous-believe it all.
How must those mighty Warrior-spirits gaze,
Manius, Fabricius,—what be your amaze,
Shades of the Scipios,—what, Camillus, thine,
How must they feel, boast of the Fabian line,
The holy band of Cremera; and they
Who fell at Cannæ in their proud array,
The Hero-souls so many wars purveyed,
How gaze abhorrent, when a modern shade
Of our degenerate times is wafted o'er,
Defiling with its touch the Stygian shore.