RK you not yon sad procession; 'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom,
Hastening to the worm's possession,
To the dark and silent tomb!
See the velvet pall hangs
Poor mortality's remains;
We should shudder to
What that coffin's space contains.
Death itself is
But the colder shape of sleep;
Or the solemn statue
Beauty that forbids to weep.
But decay—the pulses
When its livid signs appear;
When the once-loved lips
All we loathe, and all we fear.
Is it not a ghastly
For the body's godlike form,
Thus to the damp earth descending,
Food and triumph to the worm?
Better far the red pile
With the spicy Indian wood,
Incense unto heaven
From the sandal oil's sweet flood.
In the bright pyre's kindling flashes,
Let my yielded soul ascend;
Fling to the wild winds my ashes'Till with mother-earth they blend.
Not so,—let the pale urn keep them;
Touch'd with spices, oil, and wine;
Let there be some one to weep them;
Wilt thou keep that urn?
Love mine!
