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Till pain consumed the life so call'd below.
She heard that he was dead!—she ask'd not how—
For he was dead! She wail'd not o'er his urn,
For he was dead—and in her hands, should burn
His vestal flame of honor radiantly.
Sighing would dim its light—she did not sigh.

She only died. They laid her in the ground,
Whereon th' unloving tread, and accents sound
Which are not of her Spain. She left behind,
For those among the strangers who were kind
Unto the poor heart-broken, her dark hair.
It once was gauded out with jewels rare;
It swept her dying pillow—it doth lie
Beside me, (thank the giver) droopingly,
And very long and bright! Its tale doth go
Half to the dumb grave, half to life-time woe,
Making the heart of man, if manly, ring
Like Dodonæan brass, with echoing.