I have laid my cold hand on him;
And the stately form hath before me bowed,
And the flashing eye is dim.
I have trod the banquet room alone—
And the crowded halls of mirth,
And the low deep wail of the stricken one
Went up from the festal hearth.
I have stood by the pillared domes of old,
And breathed on each classic shrine—
And desolation gray and cold