Their fathers shrieked before; their fathers, who, tormented, said, "Happy we to groan, that our children's children may be glad." But their children's children howled.

Yet these, too, echoed previous generations, and loudly swore, "The pit that's dug for us may prove another's grave." But let all pass.

To look at, and to roam about of holidays, Odo seemed a happy land.

The palm-trees waved--though here and there you marked one sear and palsy-smitten; the flowers bloomed--though dead ones moldered in decay; the waves ran up the strand in glee--though, receding, they sometimes left behind bones mixed with shells.
But else than these, no sign of death was seen throughout the isle.
Did men in Odo live for aye?
Was Ponce de Leon's fountain there?
For near and far, you saw no ranks and files of graves, no generations harvested in winrows.

In Odo, no hard-hearted nabob slept beneath a gentle epitaph; no _requiescat-in-pace_ mocked a sinner damned; no _memento-mori_ admonished men to live while yet they might.