Deplore, ye maids, his fate with rueful tears.
It was for these he sought this teeming land,
High on the silvery wings of old romance;
One knows not where; he had bestowed his hand,
But e'en the least had stood an equal chance
Of such fair triumph, o'er her bitter peers
And the sweet pleasure of their anguished tears.
O prince of faerie! O stately swan!
And ye, whose hopes are with the might-have-beens,
Curst be the wretch through whom those hopes have gone,