Swift bark, thy pilot braved the wrath
Of ocean's wildest war,
But knows not how the damp of death
Has quenched his leading star. Alas the fair whose beauty lured
His path across the wave,
The headsman's stroke for him endured
To fill a bloody grave. Within the chapel of Saint Gil
Intombed she slumbers low;
See, distant torches burning still...
Hark, bells are pealing slow! All now is past--lies o'er the dead
The cold sepulchral stone;
And, see: a knight doth ceaseless tread
The echoing aisles alone.