Still onward¹, solemnly and slow, And speaking not a word, they go, Till pausing in their way before Mazelli's quiet cottage door, They gently lay their burden down. Whence comes that shriek² of wild despair That rises wildly on the air？ Whose is the arm so fondly thrown Around the cold, unconscious clay, That cannot its caress³ repay？

    Such wordless wo was in that cry, Such pain, such hopeless agony, No soul, excluded from the sky, Whom unrelenting justice hath Condemned⁴ to bear the second death, E'er breathed upon the troubled gale⁵ A wilder or a sadder wail；—— It rose, all other sounds above, The dirge⁶ of peace, and hope, and love！