—How heavy!—how oppressive!—how appalling!—
By and by, a low, faint, scarce audible sound rises on the air. It is very near you, yet it seems as if it were a very great way off. Now louder—now higher—now nearer still to you. It is as if the air were filled with low wails!
It is only a dirge for the dead.
—How your flesh creeps, as the fearfully solemn tones fall on your ears. How icy cold is the blood in your veins—and yet the beaded drops of perspiration stand upon your temples, and in your palms! How stoutly you struggle to feel that you still have your senses; and yet, in your strong agony, you fiercely bite your lip through and through, and know it not.
Alas!—what wo!—what wo!—what untold wo! No heart now, from whose depths to draw refreshing sympathy. No open ear, into which to pour the torrent of your untold grief. You cannot move from your tracks. You would not move if you could. You would not speak—nor utter so much as a faint cry. You would for ever stand there, like a lifeless block of marble.
You wonder if all the rest feel as you do; and you try to lift your eyes, to meet the gaze which you feel is upon you.
Just then, another wail of song—and your dimmed eyes drop to the ground. They behold what has been spared you till now.
They fall into a gaping grave!
—And then comes blindness again, and a swift swimming of the brain; and a sickening of all the senses; and you fear for yourself, lest you may suddenly reel and pitch into the newly-dug grave.—
Oh, God!—you pray—if this cup would but have passed from me!