The slow hearse—and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE on earth.
"Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train,—
I mark the sad procession with a sigh,
Silently passing to that village fane,
Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie;—
There sleeps THAT MOTHER, who with tearful eye,
Pondering the fortunes of thy early road,
Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy;
Her son, released from mortal labour's load,
Now comes to rest, with her, in the same still abode.