For then with spirits I commune,
And Eustace listens to my song.
Oh, not to her who wildly mourns
Her noble lover basely slain—
Oh, not to her the morn returns
With pleasure laughing in her train.
So look'd it once, when Eustace sung
Of plighted love's perennial joys,
Now silent is that tuneful tongue,
That graceful form the worm destroys.