Watching, while soft the morning air
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair,
Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide
Bears thy loved warrior to his bride—
Him, whose high deeds romantic praise
Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays.
He came—that youthful chief,—he came
That favour’d lord of love and fame!
His step was hurried—as if one
Who seeks a voice within to shun;