And under which, a child, she played.
When beat no more her snow-white breast,
Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest,
Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,
Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;
And strangers gave
To our dead a grave,
Sprinkling above the frail remains
Mould, moistened by autumnal rains.
Ah! since she died a wilder wail