E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.
Elm. (to Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o’er thy daughter’s bier!
But I am calm; and e’en like gentle winds,
That music, through the stillness of my heart,
Sends mournful peace.