The Funeral, XIX

Then fell an awful pause, as when The Indian striplings fearless run To slay the tiger in his den, In caves that never saw the sun: Meanwhile the Warden had his fears When he beheld the friars dying, And, side by side, survey’d three biers Whereon the saint in state was lying. Each load was borne most pompously, Deck’d with its cross and rosary; While, one by one, three corpses lay Like twin-brothers transform’d to clay, Moulded so nicely like each other, The eye no difference might discover; And as the tapers flicker’d dim, The features look’d uncouth: Each countenance appear’d more grim, And seem’d to ope its mouth. Recovering soon, the Warden raised His voice, to urge them on, who gazed: They forward press—they kneel and pray— While, lacking faith, some steal away, As starting from their fearful swoon The astonish’d friars leap to their feet; The stoled biers look wildly on, And deem the vision is complete: Till by a glimpse of reason’s beam They wake to a substantial dream!—