She watched the vessel glide,
Till she no more could see;
Till the Knight's white plume seem'd mix'd
With the white foam of the sea.
And then the Maiden sought
Her bower, to weep alone.
Alas, that ever Love
Should mourn o'er what is gone!
Oh, who is it can say
That memory is all joy!—
When was not pleasure mixed
With much of grief's alloy!
For pleasures are like flowers—
Destroyed by a moment's rain;
But grief is like the boughs,
That blighted and bare remain.
With green turf round it spread,
In the shade of a lime-wood,
Covering the shrine of a virgin saint,
A little chapel stood.
And never one single day
The Maiden her task forgot,
To deck the shrine with a wreath
Of the blue FORGET ME NOT.
And her lover—where was he?—
The first of the martial throng,
Where the scimitar flashes in light
To the trumpet's glorious song.
His lance was first in the charge,
His steed was first in the line:—
But alas that Fortune's sun
Loves rather to set than shine!
