The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.
And who can tell what visions might be thine?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o’er that wave the stars of heaven might shine
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once familiar sound,
Came as a stranger’s o’er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,