imagine. There is another Campo
Santo at Naples, formed, however, (I presume,) on the example given by
Pisa. Possibly the idea may have been more extensively copied. To readers
who are unacquainted with England, or who (being English) are yet
unacquainted with the cathedral cities of England, it may be right to
mention that the graves within-side the cathedrals often form a flat
pavement over which carriages and horses might roll; and perhaps a boyish
remembrance of one particular cathedral, across which I had seen passengers
walk and burdens carried, may have assisted my dream.]

5.

Then rose the agitation, spreading through the infinite cathedral, to its
agony; then was completed the passion of the mighty fugue. The golden
tubes of the organ, which as yet had but sobbed and muttered at
intervals--gleaming amongst clouds and surges of incense--threw up, as
from fountains unfathomable, columns of heart-shattering music. Choir
and anti-choir were filling fast with unknown voices. Thou also, Dying
Trumpeter!--with thy love that was victorious, and thy anguish that was
finishing, didst enter the tumult: trumpet and echo--farewell love, and
farewell anguish--rang through the dreadful _sanctus_. We, that spread
flight before us, heard the tumult, as of flight, mustering behind us. In
fear we looked round for the unknown steps that, in flight or in pursuit,
were gathering upon our own. Who were these that followed? The faces, which
no man could count--whence were _they_? "Oh, darkness of the grave!" I
exclaimed, "that from the crimson altar and from the fiery font wert
visited with secret light--that wert searched by the effulgence in the
angel's eye--were these indeed thy children? Pomps of life, that, from the
burials of centuries, rose again to the voice of perfect joy, could it be
_ye_ that had wrapped me in the reflux of panic?" What ailed me, that I
should fear when the triumphs of earth were advancing? Ah! Pariah heart
within me, that couldst never hear the sound of joy without sullen whispers
of treachery in ambush; that, from six years old, didst never hear the
promise of perfect love, without seeing aloft amongst the stars fingers
as of a man's hand, writing the secret legend--"_Ashes to ashes, dust to
dust_!"--wherefore shouldst _thou_ not fear, though all men should rejoice?
Lo! as I looked back for seventy leagues through the mighty cathedral, and
saw the quick and the dead that sang together to God, together