Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand:
“That’s with the past,” she said, “nor may I meanly
Give way to tears!” and passed into the land.
The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning,
With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand,
So weak they seemed,—and all her passion owning.
The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came,
Half for such homage to the dead atoning
By smiles on one who fanned a later flame
In her slight soul, her fickle steps attended.