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And what within is richly shrined? A sculptured woman's form, Lovely in perfect rest reclined, As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face, The mantle's quiet flow, The gentle, yet majestic grace, Throned on the matron brow; These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet Of the fair image wrought; A kingly emblem—nor unmeet To wake yet deeper thought: She whose high heart finds rest below, Was royal in her birth and wo.