* The original, literally rendered, is, “Who can give a voice

so sweetly to a dead willow?"

The prayers of the clergy

Rose up in your hall.

The fool there was sheltered
As soon as an Earl,
Nor rejected was there

The disdain'd, outcast girl.

Behold your reward—

In the fullness of grief.
The reward for your wines,
And your meat and relief!
For the joy of your feasts
The sad tribute is paid,
In the full burst of keening
That for thee is made.-

Your kindred with zeal

And sincerity mourn,

And old men and young men
Raise their voices forlorn;

Old women, distracted,

Madly shout forth their pain;

And maidens lament thee

In heart-rending strain.

And now that you're laid
In the silence of death,

Still they fondly prolong

Their last musical breath;

Like the string of a harp

That keeps vibrating on,

Though the hand that has waked it

For ever is gone.

Your attendants are there,
In deep mourning of black-
Save the herald who carries

His fame on his back.

And the honours you gained

Now displayed on your hearse,

To others these trophies

Will the herald disperse.

As your coffin was laid

In the gloom of the grave,

The smoke of the vollies

Fired over the brave,

Had the sunrise that morning
Been cloudlessly bright,

Would have changed the clear sky
To the darkness of night.

Each soldier, to prove

How sincere was his grief,

In doubling his charge
Sought a stunning relief,
But that vivid fire-flash,

The peasants around

In fast flowing tears

As instantly drowned.

When the news was reported
At break of the day,

The priests, tho' not far

Was their dwelling away,

Through the spur of great haste

It was needful should be, At noontide performing

Their service for thee.

Ninety priests for thy soul,
Did that sad morning pray,
In their rich robes of state,
To the close of the day;
And choristers chaunted,
Unnumbered the throng,
And bishops of tithes

Chimed in with their song.

To tell all about thee,
For me what a task!

The power of an Ovid
I surely should ask ;
Though his Muse is not mine
Yet you shall not depart-

Without, in a clear voice,
My speaking my heart.

Oh! sun-beam of evening
Gone down in the west,
Your refulgence has sunk
In the wild waves to rest.
And storm clouds are up

In the grey twilight sky
And the wind is abroad-

Tho' as yet with a sigh.