THE NEW WORDS ARE IN ITALICS

He who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the Orst day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress,

(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines Avhere beauty Ungers,)

And mark'd the mild angelic air.

The rapture of repose that's there,

The fix'd yet tender traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek.

And — but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,

And but for that chill, changeless brow,

Where cold Obstruction's apathy

Appals the gazing mourner's heart

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads yet dwells upon ;

Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour.

He still might doubt the tyrant's power ;

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,

The first, last look, by death reveal'd !