Reject the boon, and wearied with the change,
Renounce the wish which first induced to range;
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once
Trace once again Old Trent's romantic shore,
And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways,
Here waste the little remnant of my days.
But, if the Fates should this last wish deny,
And doom me on some foreign shore to die;
Oh! should it please the world's supernal King,
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing;
Or that my corse should, on some desert strand,
Lie stretched beneath the Simoom's blasting hand;
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb,
My sprite shall wander through this favorite gloom,
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove,
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove,
Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave,
And mix its moanings with the desert wave.
THE night it was still, and the moon it shone
Serenely on the sea,
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock
They murmured pleasantly.
When Gondoline roamed along the shore,
A maiden full fair to the sight;
Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheek,
And turned it to deadly white.