Music comes floating
Down from the dome;
Angels are chanting
The sweet welcome home;
Come, stricken weeper,
Come to the bed,
Gaze on the sleeper -
Our idol is dead!

Smooth out the ringlets,
Close the blue eye -
No wonder such beauty
Was claimed in the sky;
Cross the hands gently
O'er the white breast,
So like a wild spirit
Strayed down from the blest;
Bear her out softly,
This idol of ours,
Let her grave slumbers
Be 'mid the sweet flowers.