His soul has ta'en its flight!—

He sleeps the last long sleep of death

Upon his bridal night.

His guards were gone;—no friends were near

To bless him ere he died!

None, none to dry the falling tear,

Or bid his pains subside.

Oh! where is she whom fate hath made

Dejected and forlorn?

She goes to Croyland's hallow'd shade,