THE
FUNERAL
.
THE
paper
black'd
a
full
inch
deep
,
At
every
corner
seem'd
to
weep
;
The
seal
with
fearful
speed
was
broke
,
When
thus
the
Writer
sadly
spoke
:
—
"
Oh
Charles
,
belov'd
!
my
dear
is
dead
,
"
And
every
bliss
for
ever
fled
;
"
You
and
your
wife
,
her
constant
friend
,
"
Her
fun'ral
rites
must
now
attend
.
"
The
day
approach'd
;
the
solemn
bell
In
dismal
notes
rang
Laura's
knell
;
Charles
and
his
mate
in
blackness
clad
,
With
rueful
thoughts
and
faces
sad
Saw
her
interr'd
—
heard
"
dust
to
dust
,
"
And
cry'd
—
to
this
all
come
,
and
must
.
The
coaches
now
in
sad
array
Pace
back
the
mournful
late
trod
way
;
Whilst
floating
plumes
on
shoulders
borne
,
The
dusty
lanes
and
streets
adorn
.
The
widower
sad
,
alone
they
found
,
In
sable
length
upon
the
ground
.
His
consolation
,
Charles
essay'd
,
And
many
a
weary
moment
stay'd
;
From
Scripture
cull'd
a
sacred
store
,
And
drain'd
,
from
heathenish
learned
lore
,
All
that
was
ever
thought
or
said
To
prove
we
can't
call
back
the
dead
;
He
sooth'd
his
tears
at
ev'ry
gush
,
And
saw
at
length
his
sorrows
hush
.
Oh
!
Charles
,
James
cried
,
thou'rt
very
kind
!
This
shall
live
long
within
my
mind
;
—
How
shall
the
friendship
I
repay
Thou'st
prov'd
upon
this
mournful
day
Which
tore
my
dearest
wife
away
And
placed
her
with
her
kindred
clay
?
Charles
rub'd
his
cheek
,
and
thus
replied
,
With
head
a
little
turn'd
aside
—
Why
,
dearest
James
,
thou
shalt
to
me
Be
just
the
friend
I've
been
to
thee
;
Would
Fate
grant
that
,
'tis
all
I
ask
,
Be
mine
the
SORROW
,
thine
the
TASK
!