18
Soon shall the form o'er that pure tide
Which now to earth so fondly clings,
Freed from each grovelling trammel glide,
And mingle with its holy springs.
The red crown of the lotus wreath
Upon the molten silver blushes,
And a dark, lifeless form beneath
With the stream's headlong current rushes.
The corse, the flower are seen no more,
For ever lost in yon bright river,
The echoes of the lonely shore
In mournful tones repeat—for ever!
