“Tore asunder nature’s bands!—
“I see him still,—He waves me on!
“And now to the dark abyss he’s gone—
“He calls—I hear his voice, so sweet,—
“It seems to say—Poor Marguerite!”
Thus, wild she sung! when on the sand
She saw her long lost Henry, stand:
Pale was his cheek, and on his breast
His icy hand he, silent, prest;
And now the Twilight shadows spread