"O Father of all mercies, still be merciful,
And raise me from the gulf of this despair.
I cannot think nor feel my love is dead.
If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance,
Give me some sign that I may know the truth."
I slowly raise my hand, and let it fall.
Grace springs up all delight, and draws the cloth,
Kissing my lips, and begging me to wake.
I try, but fail to raise my hand again.
The trance still lasts. My eyes will not unclose;
My lips refuse the functions of their place.
XIII.
On the next day will be the funeral;
But Grace has this delayed for one week more;
Yet all in vain, I neither wake nor move.
I hear the people coming in the house,
And straight within my coffin long to rise.
I hear the pastor's prayer, and then his words,
Simple and good, and full of tender praise.
They come at last to take a parting look,
A file of faces that pass out the door.
I hear them quickly screwing down the lid;
And now the bearers take me from the house,
And push me, feet first, in the black plumed hearse.
Gianni is a bearer of my pall,
