The Funeral

MARK you not yon sad procession; 'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom, Hastening to the worm's possession, To the dark and silent tomb! See the velvet pall hangs over Poor mortality's remains; We should shudder to discover What that coffin's space contains. Death itself is lovely—wearing But the colder shape of sleep; Or the solemn statue bearing Beauty that forbids to weep. But decay—the pulses tremble When its livid signs appear; When the once-loved lips resemble All we loathe, and all we fear. Is it not a ghastly ending For the body's godlike form, Thus to the damp earth descending, Food and triumph to the worm? Better far the red pile blazing With the spicy Indian wood, Incense unto heaven raising From the sandal oil's sweet flood. In the bright pyre's kindling flashes, Let my yielded soul ascend; Fling to the wild winds my ashes 'Till with mother-earth they blend. Not so,—let the pale urn keep them; Touch'd with spices, oil, and wine; Let there be some one to weep them; Wilt thou keep that urn? Love mine!