And he fell like a lily and died.
There were tears, burning tears, to recall him,
And anguish that scorches the brain,
But the harp-strings of life never answered
The touch that would tune them again!
She sleeps in a dark mausoleum,
And ages have rolled o’er her head,
But her name is remembered in Tyrol
As when she was laid with the dead.
And to-day, as the traveler sits weary,