And still she mourned, and still the sullen river
Rolled onward, without heeding her complain—
The cold, dark, ruthless, unrelenting river,
Whose bosom held the mystery of her pain.
A night agone, a secret had been given
Into its keeping, and it kept it well;
No witness was there save the stars and heaven,
And what the angels see they do not tell.
Down, down beneath the flood, upon a pillow
Of moss-grown rock the form of Harold lay;
Sleeping as sweetly as 'twere not the billow
That sung to him, instead of lady gay!
After a time the cold dark river parted,
And two forms lay beneath the sullen wave;
A lovely lady, pale and broken-hearted,
Had found unconsciously her lover's grave.
And side by side, beneath the darksome river,
That kept their secret well for evermore,
Sleep hearts once brave, that broke in life's wild fever,
The noble Harold, and fair Isadore.
Strange are the legends that the minstrels tell
Of "fairie ladie," and of knight betrayed;
But the dark river keeps their secret well,
And none e'er found where their deep graves were made;
The river, dark and sullen as of yore,
Told only me the fate of Isadore.
