Whereon her lord's cold livid corpse was laid;
The gathered crowd now forms a ring around,
And in the arms of silence sinks each sound.
Hushed is the zel, the trumpet's brazen throat
No more gives out its shrill unwelcome note;
And she, that lonely victim, stands the while
Like a pale flower beside the funeral pile.
The gaze of all is on her—there she stands,
Created perfect by Eternal hands!
What though the rose has vanished from her cheek,
Her eye speaks more than ever tongue may speak—
That large black orb too eloquently tells
All that within her suffering bosom dwells—
Wild thoughts, wild feelings that we ne'er can find
Save in a woman's wonder-working mind.
Think'st thou she dreams of love, and love for whom?
The parted dead whose home should be the tomb?