But him thou knew’st not—and the light he lent
Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement,
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet,
A thing we shrink from—vainly to forget!
—Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide!
The dagger, grasp’d in death—the brow, the eye,
Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony;
The soul’s dark traces left in many a line
Graved on his mein, who died—“and made no sign!”