XII.
Hark! 'tis night.
The hour is borne distinctly by the wind.
My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side,
And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere,
She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays.
"O Father of all mercies, still be merciful,
And raise me from the gulf of this despair.
I cannot think nor feel my love is dead.
If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance,
Give me some sign that I may know the truth."
I slowly raise my hand, and let it fall.
Grace springs up all delight, and draws the cloth,
Kissing my lips, and begging me to wake.
I try, but fail to raise my hand again.
The trance still lasts. My eyes will not unclose;
My lips refuse the functions of their place.
XIII.
On the next day will be the funeral;
But Grace has this delayed for one week more;
Yet all in vain, I neither wake nor move.
I hear the people coming in the house,
And straight within my coffin long to rise.
I hear the pastor's prayer, and then his words,
Simple and good, and full of tender praise.
They come at last to take a parting look,
A file of faces that pass out the door.
I hear them quickly screwing down the lid;
And now the bearers take me from the house,
And push me, feet first, in the black plumed hearse.
Gianni is a bearer of my pall,
And Grace is choked with sobs, and follows on.
We reach the grave. They slowly lower me down.
Some gravel on the side is loose, and falls
Battling upon the narrow coffin lid.
Horror on horror! Let me see no more!