Believe not then that I am dead.
When my cold limbs they shroud with care,
And on my brow love’s tear-drops shed,
And lay me on my ebon bier,—
Believe not then that I am dead.
And when the tolling bell shall ring
To my black coffin’s muted tread
—Death’s fiendish laughter, quivering,—
Believe not then that I am dead.
And when the black-robed priests shall sing,