And why in grief it seem’d to pine?

‘I am the eyes of him,’ it said,

‘Who lies beneath this lowly shrine!’

Like me, sad emblems of despair,

Still seek they to behold again

That cruel, that relentless fair,

Who wrought his death by her disdain!

It does, alas! from this appear,

That Love admits of no release;

Torments its vot’ries while they’re here,