Speak low!--speak low--the banshee is crying;
Hark! hark to the echo!--she's dying! 'she's dying.'
What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water?
'Tis the swan of the lake--'tis _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said?
O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'
No shadow now dims the face of the water;
Gone, gone is the wraith of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
The step of yon train is heavy and slow,
There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe;
What melody rolls over mountain and water?
'Tis the funeral chant of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan
Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone;
'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!
O, why did she die, _the Geraldine's Daughter_?'
The thistle-beard floats--the wild roses wave
With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave;
The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water,
While night-birds are wailing _the Geraldine's Daughter_.