Speaking of Allston, I was told in Boston that his funeral was
by torch-light, after nine in the evening, and one of the most
impressive and befitting ceremonies ever witnessed. _New York
Correspondent Nat. Intelligencer._
Not in the glare of day—
Not to the common eye:
But lay that dreamless brow away
When night is on the sky—
When darkness drops her noiseless pall,
And torches light the funeral.
Not in the glare of day—
Not in the pomp of wo:
Let nature veil the sanctity
Of tears, that none may know
Whose hushed but earnest griefs belie
The clamors of hypocrisy.
Not in the glare of day—
Not by the reeking mart:
He loved the lone and twilight way,
The night-fall of the heart—
When, passion, pride and sense subdued,
The spirit wrought in solitude.
Not in the glare of day—
Not to the common eye:
And though ye lay that brow away
When night is on the sky,
Long years shall yet remember well
The poet-painter’s burial.
* * * * *