Farewell, farewell !" faintly she sighs,
Convulsive grasps his hand — and dies.
Forth from the Stygian flood, not Death,
But his young brother, Madness, rose.
His face is pale, a poppy wreath
Amid his locks dishevelled shows ;
By turns he gazes on the ground,
By turns looks upward to the skies ;
His mouth convulsed a smile plays round,
And tears bedim his half-shut eyes.
Poor Axel's head with wand of power
He touched, and ever from that hour
The youth with ceaseless step doth walk
Around the grave, as sagas say
In olden time the dead would stalk
Round where their buried treasures lay.
And day and night that shore so lone
Echoes his sad and touching moan.