Perchance lie sullied with some felon’s blood,
Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved.
See’st thou the lone wild dog among the tombs
Howling with famine, roam—raking the dust
From mouldering bones—while from the skull through which
The moonlight streams, the noisome hoopoe flies,
And flaps his hateful wings above the field
Spread with funereal crosses—screaming shrill,
As if to curse the light the pious stars
Shed on neglected burial-grounds?—In vain