My eye was arrested by straggling groups of common people… 
The train of a funeral suddenly appeared on which a young 
girl that stood beside me gave a deep sigh and uttered “Poor 
Lord Byron.” I looked up in the young girl’s face; it was dark 
and beautiful, and I could almost feel in love with her… 
She had counted the carriages in her mind as they passed… 
sixty-three or -four in all. The gilt ones that led the 
procession were empty. I saw his remains born away on its 
last journey to that place where fame never comes; though 
it lives like a shadow and lingers like a sunbeam on his 
grave it cannot enter.