  Speak low!—speak low—the banshee is crying; Hark! hark to the echo!—she's dying! 'she's dying.' What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water? 'Tis the swan of the lake—'tis the Geraldine's Daughter. Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said? O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!' No shadow now dims the face of the water; Gone, gone is the wraith of the Geraldine's Daughter. The step of yon train is heavy and slow, There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe; What melody rolls over mountain and water? 'Tis the funeral chant of the Geraldine's Daughter. The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone; 'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her! The thistle-beard floats—the wild roses wave With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave; The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water, While night-birds are wailing the Geraldine's Daughter. |
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