Where Southern stars upon his grave look down,
Calm-eyed and wondrous clear!
No strife his resting mars!
And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps
His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm,
Where dark Tantallon keeps.
For still in plaintive woe,
By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led,
The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand
Mourns for her absent dead: