heart? Is thy prayer utter'd for thy mother's soul, Who into long, long torment
slept through thee? Whose blood is on thy threshold? - And stirs there not
already 'neath thy heart Another quick'ning pulse, that even now Tortures
itself and thee With its foreboding presence?
Woe! Woe! Oh could I free me from the thoughts That hither, thither, crowd
upon my brain, Against my will!
Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla.
Grim horror seizes thee! The trumpet sounds! The graves are shaken! And