When falls the roof she to the forest flies,
And from her laden breast o’er dying embers,
Sings a low dirge the passer-by remembers.
I heard the song! An ancient peasant swain,
When over bones his iron ploughshare rang,
Stood, and on flute of willow played a strain,
Prayers for the dead, or, with a rhymed lament,
Of you, great childless fathers, then he sang.
The echoes answered. I from far did hear,
And sorrow brought the sight and song more near;