Page:Leaves of Grass (1860).djvu/450

442 Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole
 * earth—they never cease—they are the burial
 * lines,

He that was President was buried, and he that is now
 * President shall surely be buried.

Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf—posh and
 * ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets,
 * a gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last
 * daylight of Twelfth Month,

A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—
 * the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the
 * cortege mostly drivers.

Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the
 * death-bell, the gate is passed, the new-dug grave
 * is halted at, the lining alight, the hearse uncloses.

The coffin is passed out, lowered and settled, the
 * whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly
 * shovelled in.

The mound above is flatted with the spades—
 * silence,

A minute, no one moves or speaks—it is done. He is decently put away—is there anything more?

He was a good fellow, free-mouthed, quick-tempered,
 * not bad-looking, able to take his own part, witty,
 * sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for
 * a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty,
 * drank hearty, had known what it was to be
 * flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sickened,
 * was helped by a contribution, died, aged forty-one
 * years—and that was his funeral.