  Slow and weary, moves a dreary Stout black bark the stream along; Visors wearing, all-uncaring, Funeral mutes the benches throng. ’Mongst them dumbly, with his comely Face upturn’d, the dead bard lies; Living seeming, toward the beaming Light of heaven still turn his eyes. From the water, like a daughter Of the stream’s voice, comes a sigh, And with wailing unavailing ’Gainst the bark the waves dash high. |
|
