text_original: Hark! how the chant is rising From a hundred boats and mo', Mingling its soft sweet requiem, With the murmuring wavelet's flow. And now the fleet of mourners Reaches the haven still, And th' Monks' slow, sad procession Is winding down the hill.
text_transcription: HARK HOW THE CHAND IS RISING FROM A HUNDRED BOATS AND MOW MINGLING ITS SOFT SWEET REQUIEM WITH THE MURMURING WAVELETS FLOW AND NOW THE FLEET OF MOURNERS REACHES THE HAVEN STILL AND THE MONG'S SLOW SAD PROCESSION IS WINDING DOWN THE HILL
phonemes: hˈɑːɹk! hˌaʊ ðə tʃˈænt ɪz ɹˈaɪzɪŋ fɹʌm ɐ hˈʌndɹɪd bˈoʊts ænd mˈoʊ, mˈɪŋɡəlɪŋ ɪts sˈɔft swˈiːt ɹˈɛkwɪˌɛm, wɪððə mˈɜːmɚɹɪŋ wˈeɪvlɪts flˈoʊ. ænd nˈaʊ ðə flˈiːt ʌv mˈɔːɹnɚz ɹˈiːtʃᵻz ðə hˈeɪvən stˈɪl, ænd tˌiːˈeɪtʃ mˈʌŋks slˈoʊ, sˈæd pɹəsˈɛʃən ɪz wˈaɪndɪŋ dˌaʊn ðə hˈɪl.