Alaric

Our power is pass'd, our spells have been cast

And penitent now for life art thou

Thy spells were sure, for now peace secure

Doth bless king Alaric's bed,

— But it is the peace of the dead.

For down went the king, and his palace, and all

And already in his hall are the flag-reeds tall,

And the long green rushes grow.

Then take thy bride to thy cloister'd bed,

— But it is the place of the dead.

And oft from our boat on a Summer's eve

Sweet music is heard to flow.

As we push from the side of the Blue-Lake's tide

Where the long green rushes grow

And the waters now o'er it flow,

Above king Alaric's head,

— But it is the place of the dead.