And, as the furrow choked with weeds,
Fade from the memory of the land.
The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay,
To guard the gore his blade hath shed—
Time sweeps the purple stain away,
And throws a veil o'er glory's bed.
But though my form must fade from view.
And Byron bow to fate resigned,—
Undying as the fabled Jew,
Harold's dark spirit stays behind!