Wasted, weary, wherefore stay,
Wrestling thus with earth and clay?
From the body pass away;—
Hark! the mass is singing.
From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed.
Saints to help thee at thy need;—
Hark! the knell is ringing.
Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ;
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast
That shall ne'er know waking.
Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone.
Earth flits fast, and time draws on,—
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking.
The songstress paused, and was answered by one or two deep and hollow groans, that seemed to proceed from the very agony of the mortal strife—"It will not be," she muttered to herself—"He cannot pass away with that on his mind—it tethers him here—
