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Rh "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.

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,