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Updated: May 27, 2025
"And has he not high honor, The hill side for a pall, He lies in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines, with tossing plumes, Over his tomb to wave; 'Twas a kind dear hand in that lonely land, That laid him in the grave." "In that lonely grave without a name, Where his uncoffined clay Shall break again, O, wondrous thought!
The action hushed and silenced her, and as he rose he spoke no other word, but silently drew back so much of the curtain that he could see into the hall, where the dead man still lay uncoffined upon the bed where his own hands had laid him, and the low, sweet requiem of kneeling priests floated round him.
If ye go now, ye rush upon the swords that are sharpened for your destruction, and ye hasten to fatten the raven and the worm; for the winds shall sing your dirge, as your bonny yellow hair waves to the blast, and the gloaming and the night fling a shroud owre your uncoffined limbs. Ye go, but ye winna return. Ye will see the sun rise, but not set and these are hard words for a mother to say."
Sir Christopher Harflete is dead and buried in yonder churchyard." "What! So soon, and all uncoffined, he who was a noble knight? Then you buried him living, and, living, in a day to come he shall rise up against you. Hear my words, all.
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