Byron's Funeral
D. Thomas
My eye was arrested by straggling groups of common people…
The train of a funeral suddenly appeared on which a young
girl that stood beside me gave a deep sigh and uttered “Poor
Lord Byron.” I looked up in the young girl's face; it was dark
and beautiful, and I could almost feel in love with her…
She had counted the carriages in her mind as they passed…
sixty-three or -four in all. The gilt ones that led the
procession were empty. I saw his remains born away on its
last journey to that place where fame never comes; though
it lives like a shadow and lingers like a sunbeam on his
grave it cannot enter.