His arm fell trembling and he knew not why!
He ope’d the door—there stood a shivering horse,
While clung upon his mane a stiff and muffled corse.
Oh Death! who calls thy aspect terrible?
Is’t he who gazes on the gentle maid
Wrapped in her careful shroud; for whom a knell
Steals o’er the village like a twilight shade;
And on whose breast and in whose hands are laid
White violets and lilies of the vale,
Gems which bloom downward? Or, like them arrayed,