Which the mourner in bitterness sheareth, neither beating of hands one heareth
On maiden's head.
Half-Chorus 1.
Yet surely is this the appointed day— 105
Half-Chorus 2.
Ah! what wilt thou say?
Half-Chorus 1.
Whereon of her doom she must pass to the tomb.
Half-Chorus 2.
With a keen pang's smart hast thou stabbed mine heart.
Half-Chorus 1.
It is meet, when the good are as flowers plucked away,
That in sorrow's gloom
Should the breast of the old tried friend have part.
Chorus.
(Str. 2)
Though ye voyage all seas,
Ye shall light on no lands,
Nor on Lycia's leas,
Nor Ammonian sands, 115
Whence redemption shall come for the wretched, or loosing of Death's dread bands.
Doom's imminent slope
Is a precipice-steep.
In no God is there hope, 120
