And a gathering film in his lifted eye,
That sought his young bride out mournfully.
She knelt down beside him—her arms she wound
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around,
As if the passion of that fond grasp
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.
But they tore her thence in her wild despair,
The sea’s fierce rovers—they left him there:
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein,
And on the wet violets a pile of slain,