Coronach, Or Death-Wai
Wail! Wail!
For a sub hath set.
Which no returning morrow
Shall ever call
From the darksome pall,
To beam upon our sorrow!
Moan! Moan!
O’er his dwelling lone,
As ye heap the clod above him:
Dead! Dead!
His soul hath fled
From the hearts that lived to love him!
Wail! Wail!
Though our tears be vain,
For the soul in glory shining!
Yet how can those
Who have seen his close
Forbear for awhile repining?
Moan! Moan!
O’er the narrow stone;
Body and soul must sever!
Dead! Dead!
His spirit hath fled.
And a star hath set for ever!
