Sing—but low, sing low!
A soft, sad miserere chant
For a soul about to go!
The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o’er his way,
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day;
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars’ past renown—
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!
Shut the proud, bright sunshine
From the fading sight!
There needs no ray by the bed of death,