IV

Oh! bear her by the weeping crest,

And past the fields of fallen ears,

On her last journey from the West,

This holy Lady Day of tears.

But yet, tho’ heads are bared and bowed,

And down the road the keeners keen,

Some spirit-music, deep and proud,

Slips out their thin, shrill cries between

And, like the bird that other day,

That made the silence ring with sound,

It floats along the sun-set way,

A joy above our sorrow's mound.