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XIV.
But other light is in that holy pile,
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose;
There, through the dim arcade, and pillared aisle,
The funeral-torch its deep-red radiance throws.
There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain,
And all around the stamp of wo may bear;
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain,
Grief unexpressed, unsoothed by them—is there.
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns,
Than when the all he loved, as dust to dust returns.
XV.
We mourn—but not thy fate, departed One!
We pity—but the living, not the dead;
A cloud hangs o'er us—a[1] "the bright day is done,"
And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled.
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast,
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought;
He, with thine early, fond affections blest,
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught;
- ↑
a"The bright day is done,
"And we are for the dark."
Shakspeare.
