He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled—
The first dark day of Nothingness
The last of doom and of distress—
Before Corruption's cankering fingers
Hath tinged the hue where Beauty lingers
And marked the soft and settled air
That dwells with all but Spirit there
The fixed yet tender lines that speak
Of Peace along the placid cheek
And—but for that sad shrouded eye
That fires not—pleads not—weeps not—now—
And but for that pale chilling brow
Whose touch tells of Mortality
{-And curdles to the Gazer's heart-}
As if to him it could impart
The doom he only looks upon—
Yes but for these and these alone,
A moment—yet—a little hour
We still might doubt the Tyrant's power.