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It is the last, the parting song;
And from the temple forth they throng—
And quickly spread themselves abroad—
While each pursues his several road.
But some, a variegated band
Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung,
Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,
Towards the spot, where, full in view,
The lovely Doe of whitest hue,
Her sabbath couch has made.
It was a solitary mound;
Which two spears’ length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide:
As if in some respect of pride ;
Or melancholy’s sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood ;
