Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well[247]
By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
LXXII.
That isle is now all desolate and bare,
Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away;
None but her own and Father's grave is there,
And nothing outward tells of human clay;
Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair,
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say,