Its faded buds already lie
To deck my coffin when I die.
Bring them here—'twill not be long,
'Tis the last line of the woeful song;
And the final and dying words are sung
To the discord of lute-strings all unstrung.
O Adrian, do not harshly sweep
The chords that are quivering to voiceless sleep.
No; but I'd string them once more to a sound
That should startle the nations that rest around.
I'd call forth the glorious chorus again
Which flooded the earth with a bloody main.
Have I crushed you, Percy? I'd raise once more
The beacon-light on the rocky shore.
Percy, my love is so true and deep,
That though kingdoms should wail and worlds should weep,
I'd fling the brand in the hissing sea,
The brand that must burn unquenchably.
Your rose is mine; when the sweet leaves fade,
They must be the chaplet to wreathe my head,
The blossoms to deck my home with the dead.
I repent not—that which my hand has done
Is as fixed as the orb of the burning sun;
But I swear by Heaven and the mighty sea
That wherever I wander, my heart is with thee.