XIII.
With quivering lip the boy gazed long;
Unheeded and unmarked a throng
Might there have met, so fixed his soul
On Memory's unfolding scroll.
He knew not that the hours crept by,
And sullen grew the deepening night;
Again he met his mother's eye,
As erst in joyous days and bright,
And heard the accents clear and mild,
Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her child
A fervent blessing and a prayer;
Again his father's silver hair
Gleamed on his sight, although the tomb
Had closed him in its rayless gloom.