DIRGES

                      I

            The Serenade

«What strains are these that break my sleep,
That with my dreams are blent?
mother, see! what can they be,
Now night so far is spent?»

«I naught can see, I naught can hear,
Sleep on in slumber mild;
For thee is played no serenade.
My poor, my suffering child».

«These strains from earth have not their birth,
That make my soul so light;
The angels come to call me home;
mother dear! good night!»