Soft as an angel's breath,
Swift as the wings of death,
Through all the haunts of men,
By lake and by river,
Across forest and fen,
Onward they sped, paused they never.
By hamlet or hall,
Mystic their pall,
Hied as a spirit hidden from view,
Faithless nor wavering, ever more true.
Onward these words sped--
"Your mother is dead."
Quick as a dart,
Piercing the heart,
Bore they upon me;
Reeling the blow sent me.
Oh! for the woe lent me,
How could I stand.