Survives, to hear my dying moan,
Or give his chief a grave.
No, no, not one; alone I tread
These desolate, desert sands—alone,
Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,
My merry men lie, cold and dead
And motionless as stone.
Night after night, along the sea,
In maiden modesty of mien,
Glides, gazing mournfully on me,