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And, ere he, abashed, bewildered, of her thought was ware,
Deep beneath the rolling river plunged her shame and her
despair !
Headlong the remorseful lover follows down the wave,
Catches at the floating raiment, but he cannot save —
For the hero, conscience-stricken, weakens to a child, —
On the bank once more he standeth, pale and anguish- wild !
Well, O king, thy heart might fail thee ! never from that
night,
Cold and mute a spectral-shadow ceased to haunt thy sight !
Blood of Paynim, tears repentant — all in vain they flowed,
Still the sad, reproachful vision, unappeased, before thee
stood.
Even yet, the reapers tell us, may that maid be seen
When the tender autumn cometh, rolling mists between ;
From the parting flood she rises ere the stars are bright,
And her phantom-web outstretches far, to bleach beneath
their light.
