II.
Here hast thou lain in sleep profound,
And years, long years, have fled,
Since friends and loved ones, gathering round,
Wept o’er thy lowly bed.
III.
Perchance through long and lonely hours,
With heart-sick grief they mourned;
And clad thy early grave with flowers,
As oft as spring returned.
IV.
Perchance ’twas wit or beauty’s queen,
Or wealth, that here lies low;
But who or what thou may’st have been,
It matters nothing now.
V.
What thoughts were thine, what dreams of fame,
What pride that would transcend!
But grief, or guilt, or woe, or shame,
All here would seem to end.