Resquiat

All was still. The moon hung not out her lamp,

and the stars faintly glimmered in the summer sky;

the breath of night slept among the leaves of the forest;

the bosom of the lofty hill drank in the silent dew,

while on his majestic brow the voice of angels is heard,

and stringed sounds ride upon the wings of night.

The sorrowful pair lift up their heads,

hovering angels are around them,

voices of comfort are heard over the Couch of Death,

and the youth breathes out his soul with joy into eternity.