Must sink ere long; I had but him—but one!
Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.
And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me?
And is there but for stately youth a grave?
Speak to me once again, my boy!