XXXV

       What softer voice is hush’d over the dead?
       Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
       What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
       In mockery of monumental stone,
       The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
       If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
       Taught, sooth’d, lov’d, honour’d the departed one,
       Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.