Around the tall cliff’s weedy head;
Far o’er the main the moon shone bright,
She mark’d the quiv’ring stream of light—
It danc’d upon the murm’ring wave
It danc’d upon—her Henry’s Grave!
It mark’d his visage, deathly pale,—
His white shroud floating in the gale;
His speaking eyes—his smile so sweet
That won the love—of Marguerite!
And now he beckon’d her along