I yearn’d, at least, to heal her sorrow’d heart,
Forget her wrong, and love her as of old.
But when I found her, my poor girl was dead;
There[1268] on the cruel river’s bank she lay,
The water dripping[1269] from her golden hair—
Those golden ringlets I had fondled oft!
I clasp’d her hand[1270] and gazed into her eyes,
Whose steadfast stare seemed now to pierce me through,
And placed my lips against her clay-cold cheek
Till presently they bore her[1271] from my sight.