That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,
Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;
No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;
While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;
Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,
Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!
Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,
And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.