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.