To think that such a race, with all its fame,
Should pass away! For she, his daughter too,
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time
To sojourn there is short.
5th Cit. Then woe for us
When she is gone! Her voice, the very sound
Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved
Through the still house of mourning! Who like her
Shall give us hope again?
Old Cit. Be still!—she comes,