She'd perished with the flowers.
Popmonet bowed his aged head
In sorrow—with a moan;
"The leaves from the lone tree are swept,
I stand alone—alone!"
Auketauquil approaches near,
With brow and footstep grave;
The hated cross gleams on her breast,
He hurls it in the wave.
"Curses," he cried, "upon the lips