And, as I ran, the instinctive start
With which my mother's form I saw,
Arrayed in black, with pallid face,
And cheeks and 'kerchief wet with tears,
As down she stooped to kiss my face
And quiet my uncertain fears.
'"She led me, in her mourning hood,
Through voiceless galleries, to a room,
'Neath whose black hangings crowded stood,
With downcast eyes and brows of gloom,