"I’ll wager on her lily hand,
Where’s still a golden ring;
But, lady, ’tis a plainer one
That o’er the seas I bring."
His bugle sound the turret swept
They meet him in the hall;
But ’mid dear faces where is here,
The dearest of them all!
Ah! every brow is dark and sad,
And every voice is low;
His bosom beats not as it beat
A little while ago.
They lead him to a darkened room.
A heavy pall they raise;
A face looks forth as beautiful
As in its living days.
A ring is yet upon the hand,
Sir Francis, worn for thee.
Alas! that such a clay-cold hand,
Should true love’s welcome be!
He kissed that pale and lovely mouth,
He laid her in the grave;
And then again Sir Francis sailed
Far o’er the ocean wave.
To east and west, to north and south,
That mariner was known;
A wanderer bound to many a shore,
But never to his own.
At length the time appointed came,
He knew that it was come;
With pallid brow and wasted frame,
That mariner sought home.
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