Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o’er a summer lute blowing,
And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its flame!
* * * * *
Farewell, farewell—until Pity’s sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,
They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
T. Moore.