And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped,
Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed.
Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn,
Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn.
No arm was there to stay the savage deed,
That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed.
No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine,
In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign—
No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow,
Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe,