To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled,
Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed—
Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose,
That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose—
Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that bore
Thy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore—
Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands,
Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands,
Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale,
The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.