And robb'd my failing years!
My blood before was thin and cold
But now 'tis turn'd to tears;—
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stay'd a little yet,
And led me by the hand!
Aye, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill:
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,