He's number'd with the dead.
No more of love the tender strain,
Falls on her list'ning ear,
In life—her joy, was turn'd to pain,
Her hope—gave place to fear.
'Tis then, that dread laments they hear,
Who pass by night that way;
Which the scar'd traveller, so clear,
Hears till returning day;
When re-embarks sad Isabel,