I read my sentence—steadily— Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause— The Date, and manner, of the shame— And then the Pious Form That “God have mercy” on the Soul The Jury voted Him— I made my soul familiar—with her extremity— That at the last, it should not be a novel Agony— But she, and Death, acquainted— Meet tranquilly, as friends— Salute, and pass, without a Hint— And there, the Matter ends—
