But soon securely slept from life's wild woe and pain.
This is real history of that isle,
That ever draws the weary traveller's eye,
He sees its fairy greenness brightly smile,
Amid that river; as he passeth by,
Perchance his human eye's no longer dry,
While he recalls that mournful history;
And he may ask, with sudden sorrow, why,
The dream of rapture doth so early flee
And souls so meek and good, the prey of fiends should be.