But, lo! no corse was there! All smooth and green
A velvet turf o’erstrewn with flowers was seen,
And fenced with roses. “Oh! whose pious care
Hath deck’d this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his
prayer,
When most he needs!” While thus in doubt she stands,
She marks the fiend’s approach. His ebon hands
Sustain’d a gourd of flowers of various hue;
He pour’d them, kiss’d the turf, and straight withdrew
Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,