They bear him to his resting-place—

In slow procession sweeping by;

I follow at a stranger’s space;

His kindred they, his sweetheart I.

Unchanged my gown of garish dye,

Though sable-sad is their attire;

But they stand round with griefless eye,

Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

187–.

Sketch of open book with two letters hand-written on left-hand page