And hast thou met thy doom?
And has thy flatt'ring morning smil'd,
To lead but to the tomb?

"O let me see thee ere we part,
For souls like thine are blest;
O let me fold thee to my heart
If aught of form thou hast.

"This passing mist enrobes thy charms:
Alas, to nought 'tis shrunk!
And hollow strike my empty arms
Against my aged trunk.

"Thou'rt fled like the low ev'ning breath
That sighs upon the hill:
O stay! tho' in thy weeds of death,
Thou art my daughter still."

Loud wak'd the sound, then fainter grew,
And long and sadly mourn'd;
And softly sigh'd a long adieu,
And never more return'd.

Old Arno stretch'd him on the ground,
Thick as the gloom of night,
Death's misty shadows gather'd round,
And swam before his sight.

He heav'd a deep and deadly groan,