A brow in its regal passion high,
With a close and rigid grasp she press’d
The blood-stain’d robe to her heaving breast,
And said—“Not yet, not yet I weep,
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep!
Not till yon city, in ruins rent,
Be piled for its victim’s monument.
Cover his dust! bear it on before!
It shall visit those temple gates once more.”
And away in the train of the dead she turn’d,