And dress the rose-boughs on their brink,
And feed the grass the meadow yields.
For friends and good, they look behind,
Then curse the past, and pray to be
Unborn again within the sea,
For birth has been to them unkind.
All scenes have gone! no good has come!
From bank to bank the waters heave
With tides which only mock and grieve,
Despairs of long-lost, hopeless home.