No soft aerial music swells around,
Nor voice of sadness murmurs from the tomb.
Cold is the breast that glow’d with love, and pale
The cheek that, like the morning, blush’d before:
Mute are the lips that told the flattering tale,
And rayless is the eye that flattered more.
Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,
Thy tears he sees not, nor can hear thy sighs:
Deaf is thine Edward, as the Atlantic wave,
Cold as the blast that reads the polar skies.