And leaves pale Sorrow weeping by the hearth!
Mrs. Norton.
So live, that when thy summons comes,
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
That thou, sustained and soothed, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
Around him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
W. C. Bryant.