* * * * * * * * * * *
Mark, when he died, his tombs, his epitaphs!
Men did not pluck the ostrich for his sake,
Nor dyed’t in sable. No black steeds were there,
Caparisoned in wo; no hired crowds;
No hearse, wherein the crumbling clay (imprisoned
Like ammunition in a tumbril) rolled
Rattling along the street, and silenced grief;
No arch whereon the bloody laurel hung;
No stone; no gilded verse;—poor common shows!