He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still—he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step—but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the maid of the mournful song—
Mournful, though sweet,—she hath left us long:
We told her the youth of her love was gone,