This is dread Thanatos indeed!
He comes upon his pale-white steed.
I hear its tread, I hear its trot,
The dusky horseman spares me not;
He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,—
This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.
She was at once my child, my wife,
And when I quit this mortal life
An orphan’d widow will she be!
I leave alone on earth’s wide sea
The wife, the child, who, trusting to my guiding
Slept on my bosom, careless and confiding.
Ye angels in yon heavens so fair
Receive my sobs, receive my prayer!
When I am buried, from above
Protect the woman that I love!
Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,
Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!
By all the tears e’er shed by you
Over men’s woes in pity true,—
By that dread word that priests alone
Know, and ne’er breathe without a groan,
By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,
Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!