Julius stopped for sorrow, and Victor said, "Play on the song of rapture, he has only just died."--During the tones Victor shut to the eyes of his beloved, and said with a heart above the earth, "Now close yourselves,--the spirit is above the earth, to which you gave light,--thou pale, hallowed form, thou hallowed heart, the angel within thee is gone out and thou fallest back into the earth."--And here he embraced once more the cold, empty wrappage, and pressed the heart, which beat no more, knew him no longer, to his hot bosom; for the flute-tones tore his pale wounds too widely open.--Oh, it is well that when man in grim woe stiffens to solid ice, no tones are with him: the tender tones would lick all the sad blood out of his transpierced bosom, and man would die of his agonies, because he would be able to express his agonies.... --Here let my curtain fall before all these scenes of death, before Emanuel's grave and Horion's grief!--Thou and I, my reader, will now go forth from another's death-chamber, to look into nearer ones where we ourselves lie prostrate or where our dearest have lain. We will in those chambers behold our death-bed, but let not our eye sink;--the flame of love and of virtue blazes upward above the corruptions,--around the death-bed we see a bier as a couch of rest on which all burdens are laid down, and the broken heart also,--around the deathbed we see a great, unknown form, who breaks off from the _image_ of God the earthly _frame_.--But if the heart is made great beside our own resting-place, it becomes tender beside another's.--If thou, my reader, and if I now, with this deeply moved soul, look into the chambers where we received the perpetual wounds of earth, then will the pale forms which therein raise their dead men's eyes once more to meet us, agitate and wound us too sorely.--Ah, that may you well do, too, ye loved mutes,--what have we then left to give you, but a tear which pains us, a sigh which oppresses our hearts? Ah, if the mourning-crape on our faces is torn as soon as the funeral veil on yours,--if the marble gravestone with your name must be turned over above your corpses, in order to cover a new one with its new name,--O, if we so easily forget all the eternal love, the eternal remembrance, which we promised you in your last hour,--ah, then, indeed, in these tumultuous days of life a still hour like this is holy and beautiful, in which we lay our ear as it were close to the sunken graves, and, from the depth of the earth, although every day more darkly, hear the voices that we know call up: "Forget us not,--forget me not, my son--my friend--my beloved, forget me not!"