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 By torrent-wave, and mountain-brow, Is wandering, as an outcast now, To share, with Lindheim's fallen chief, His shame, his terror, and his grief.

Hast thou not mark'd the ruin's flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner's place? From those grey haunts renown hath pass'd Time wins his heritage at last; This day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy; Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unalter'd clings, And, smiling o'er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate.

E’en such was she, the fair-hair'd maid, In all her light of youth array'd, Forsaking every joy below, To soothe a guilty parent's woe, And clinging thus, in beauty's prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne'er did Heaven's propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne'er did young love, at duty's shrine, More nobly brighter hopes resign! O'er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sunk beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit's lofty worth, Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force; Rous’d by affliction's chast'ning might, To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh, Woke by the storm to harmony!