Soft may the worms about her creep
Far in the forest, dim and old
For her may some tall vault unfold
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant, o''er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals
Some sepulchre, remote, alone
Against whose portal she hath thrown
In childhood, many an idle stone
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne''er shall force an echo more..
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin
It was the dead who groaned within …