On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smells
Of death issue as from a sepulchre.
And all is silent but the sighing vaults.
Chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives;
Amazed she finds herself upon her feet,
And, like a ghost, through narrow passages
Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.
Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones
And grinning skulls, and corruptible death