Soon reach’d the pebbly-studded strand, The oars are struck—the mourners land In Aldham’s pleasant bay; Upon the beach three chieftains stood, With litters form’d of laurel-wood, And crown’d with rosemary; On these St Baldred’s relics laid, With other honours duteous paid, They forward march’d in sad parade; Where all were willing—those were blest, To whom were given the high behest To bear the corpse away; Preceded by six vestals fair, Who tore the long dark glossy hair That fell upon their shoulders bare As clouds on mountain snow; Anon their lily hands they wrung, And mournfully the requiem sung In plaintive notes of woe.

Hymn.

Spirit of bliss! a cup of joy Awaits thee in the halls of Thor, Where earthly sorrows ne’er destroy, Where heavenly hearts are never sore.

Did thy mother, in midnight dreams, Call thee from this land of care, To sail on heaven’s transparent streams With Jhules, the angels of the air?

Save us from pale Loda’s power, When in the gale his form appears; Cheer us in affliction’s hour, And shield us in the strife of spears.

Spirit of bliss! a cup of joy Awaits thee in the halls of Thor, Where pleasure charms without alloy, Where tempests never wreck the shore.