In blind infallibility’s embrace,
The sainted spirit petrified the breast;
Denied the charity of dust, to spread
O’er dust! a charity their dogs enjoy. 170
What could I do? what succour? what resource?
With pious sacrilege, a grave I stole;
With impious piety, that grave I wrong’d;
Short in my duty; coward in my grief!
More like her murderer, than friend, I crept,
With soft-suspended step, and muffled deep