Note 56 — BOOK I.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, (Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), And marked the mild angelic air; The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek. . . . . . . He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd."—Byron.