By the old temple on the breezy cliff,
These hands have heap’d the watch-fire, till it stream’d
Red o’er the shining columns—darkly red
Along the crested billows!—but in vain:
Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles—
Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep
Hath shut above thy head—that graceful head;
The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks;
The white sail never will bring back the loved!
By the blue waters—the restless ocean-waters,