And fire and flood shall harm us not.
Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken,
And fiends will sing thy requiem then.
XIV.
Yet think not Death will serve thy stead;
I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone.
I'll move thy mould to make my bed,
And lie with thee long hours alone:—
Long, lifeless hours! Ah God, how free,
How pale, how cold, thy lips will be!