"O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. "Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, &c. "Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Daft his tabor, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, &c. "Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go. My love is dead, &c. "See! the white moon shines on high-- Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, &c. "Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, &c. "With my hands I'll bend the briers Round his holy corse to gre:[11] Elfin fairies, light your fires; Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. "Come with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, &c. "Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[12] Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! my true love waits: Thus the damsel spoke, and died." This roundelay has always, and most justly, been greatly admired for its true pathos, and that fine harmony which charms us so much in the fragments of similar songs preserved by Shakspeare. Not less beautiful is the chorus in Godwin. There is something singularly great and majestic in its imagery. CHORUS IN GODWIN. "When Freedom, dressed in blood-stained vest, To every knight her war-song sung, Upon her head wild weeds were spread; A gory anlace by her hung: She danced upon the heath; She heard the voice of death; Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, In vain assailed her bosom to acale;[13] She heard unmoved the shrieking voice of woe, And Sadness in the owlet shake the dale. She shook the pointed spear, On high she reared her shield; Her foemen all appear, And fly along the field.