O! see! the beams of the setting sun,
How they kiss her faded cheek!
Like the sun, her race is almost run—
And hark! I hear her speak!
Come near—come near—that voice to hear,
’Tis like music dying away;
Bend low, bend low, each list’ning ear,
For the words those pale lips say:
“I am dying—O! how cold,
O! how deadly faint I feel!