I.

Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host,

Thou that didst drink and love ;

By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost,

But thy thought is ours above!

If memory yet can fly,

Back to the golden sky,

And mourn the pleasures lost !

By the ruin'd hall these flowers we lay,

Where thy soul once held its palace,

When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay,

And the smile was in the chalice,

And the cithara's silver voice,

Could bid thy heart rejoice,

When night eclipsed the day.

Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music into a quicker and more joyous strain:

II.

Death, death, is the gloomy shore,

Where we all sail-

Soft, soft, thou gliding oar;

Blow soft, sweet gale !

Chain with bright wreaths the Hours Victims if all,

Ever, 'mid song and flowers,

Victims should fall !

Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the silver-footed music:

Since Life's so short, we'll live to laugh,

Ah! wherefore waste a minute !

If youth's the cup we yet can quaff,

Be love the pearl within it !

A third band now approached with brimming cups, which they poured in libation upon that strange altar; and once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody:

III.

Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom,

From the far and fearful sea !

When the last rose sheds its bloom,

Our board shall be spread with thee,

All hail, dark Guest !

Who hath so fair a plea,

Our welcome Guest to be,

As thou, whose solemn hall,

At last shall feast us all,

In the dim and dismal coast !

Long yet be we the Host !

And thou, Dead Shadow, thou,

All joyless though thy brow,

Thou but our passing Guest!

At this moment, she who sat beside Ap cides suddenly took up the song:

IV.

Happy is yet our doom,

The earth and the sun are ours!

And far from the dreary tomb,

Speed the wings of the rosy Hours-

Sweet is for thee the bowl,

Sweet are thy looks, my love;

I fly to thy tender soul,

As the bird to its mated dove!

Take me, ah, take!

Clasp'd to-thy guardian breast,

Soft let me sink to rest :

But wake me ah, wake !

And tell me with words and sighs,

But more With thy melting eyes,

That my sun is not yet set.

That the Torch is not quench'd at the Urn,

That we love, and we breathe, and burn,

Tell me thou lov'st me yet !