The wedding garment to a garb of woe;
Thou com'st in silence to the banquet room,
Ceased is the noisy mirth, the red wine's flow,
And men look pale at thee, and gasp for breath,
Thou doest this, thou doest more, oh! Death
Thou twin'st the cypress wreath round victory's brow,
The brave have won the fight, but, fighting, fell;
It was thine arm that laid the victor low,
And toll'd amid the triumph, a lone knell
For his departure: Death—thy gloomy power