Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh,
With the last rites his bier to sanctify.
Oh, yet in time, away!—’twere not my prayer
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare!
This hour they come—and dost thou scorn to fly?
Save me that one last pang—to see thee die!”
E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread;
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead.
They reach the cave—they enter—slow their pace,
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face;