XLV

Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard,

      And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,

      To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole;

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd,

      And filling it once more with human soul?

Ah! this is holiday to what was felt

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.