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The sods where they swept red as roses are blushing—
 Their dead, all unburied, are strewing the glen."

Their dead—but not mine! for the death-blow, recoiling,
 Had spared not my life had my lover been killed:
My spirit, with his, waits the final despoiling—
 The cup, being broken,—is not the wine spilled?

He lives! on the cold clod he waits my appearing,
 Ere love's golden glory can suffer eclipse;
He yearns for my smile, death's last agony cheering;
 The clasp of my hand, and the touch of my lips.

Lead thou the way, friend, for the sake of the dying.
 Now blest be the moon for its shining tonight!
Low down in the glen where my darling is lying,
 How long ere I found him, except for its light!