XLVIII.
They came with stilly tread and panting breath,
And softly laid her on the narrow bier,
A lovely sleeper in the arms of death,
Unruffled by a dream or chilly fear,
As some fair child that sweetly slumbereth
Upon the bosom of her mother dear.
They bore the dead forth over flowers to rest,
Whose living feet on cruel thorns had prest.