yet these, however hard their fate,

their native earth receives;

amid their weeping friends they died,

and fill their fathers' graves.

from thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart

was taught by heav'n to glow,

far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke

surpris'd andid thee low.

at thest limits of our isle,

wash'd by the western wave,

touch'd by thy face, a thoughtful bard

sits lonely by thy grave.

pensive he eyes, before him spread

the deep, outstretch'd and vast;

his mourning notes are borne away

along the rapid st.

and while, amid the silent dead

thy hapless fate he mourns,

his own long sorrows freshly bleed,

and all his grief returns:

like thee, cut off in early youth,

and flower of beauty's pride,

his friend, his first and only joy,

his much lov'd ste, died.

him, too, the stern impulse of fate

resistless bears along;

and the same rapid tide shall whelm

the poet and the song.

the tear of pity which he sheds,

he asks not to receive;

let but his poor remains beid

obscurely in the grave.

his grief-worn heart, with truest joy,

shall meet he wele shock:

his airy harp shall lie unstrung,

and silent on the rock.

o, my dear maid, my ste, when

shall this sick period close,

and lead the solitary bard

to his belov'd repose?