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11.Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole
earth—they never cease—they are the burial
lines,
He that was President was buried, and he that is now
President shall surely be buried.

12.Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf—posh and
ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets,
a gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last
daylight of Twelfth Month,
A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—
the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the
cortege mostly drivers.

13.Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the
death-bell, the gate is passed, the new-dug grave
is halted at, the lining alight, the hearse uncloses.
The coffin is passed out, lowered and settled, the
whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly
shovelled in.
The mound above is flatted with the spades—
silence,
A minute, no one moves or speaks—it is done.
He is decently put away—is there anything more?

14.He was a good fellow, free-mouthed, quick-tempered,
not bad-looking, able to take his own part, witty,
sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for
a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty,
drank hearty, had known what it was to be
flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sickened,
was helped by a contribution, died, aged forty-one
years—and that was his funeral.