His chariot to the western gate
Of yonder red resplendent heaven,
Where angels high to hail him wait;
But ere his couch he press to-night,
His rays a mournful scene shall light!
The laughing wave that rolls below,
Gilt with the yellow sunshine's glow,
Shall hear, ere changed its hue may be,
A maddening wail of misery.
The minstrels gay that fondly pour
Their carols wild from brake and bower,
Will change their strains so sweet, so glad,
For lays still sweet, but ah! more sad.
The winds now walking o'er the wave,
Before they seek their prison cave,
Before they sink to nightly rest
Upon the billows' gentle breast,
Or ere they range the garden bowers,
To cull their fragrance from the flowers,
Shall chant a requiem sad and slow,
O'er hope destroyed and bliss laid low;
For ere the evening shadows fly
Devoted woman here must die.