Yea, in death did they do him service, as unto a dear-loved friend.
In these four days of their mourning, as the old bards sang unto me,
Marks full thirty thousand, yea, more, it well may be,
To the poor were freely given, that all for his soul might pray,
Now that all his life and his beauty as a shadow had passed away.
The service of God was ended, into silence sank the song.
With a storm of weeping shaken was all that mighty throng.
Then out of the dim-lit minster forth to the grave was he borne—
Oh wail of the hungry-hearted, oh voice of them that mourn!
On moved that endless procession with cries of lamenting loud;