And sure to find the flakes at dawn remov'd,
Alights and chirps upon its turf belov'd.
Such her employ; till now, one wintry day,
Some shepherds hurrying by the haunted clay,
Find the pale ruin, life for ever flown,
With her cheek pillow'd on its dripping stone.
The turf unfinish'd wreaths of ivy strew,
And her lank locks are dim with misty dew.
Poor Ellen hymns her requiem. Willows pine
Around her grave. Fallen, fallen Caroline!