Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised;
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the cross she fondly gazed,
And raised her voice in prayer.
While there she knelt in deep despair
Beside her own first born,
And bowing her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.
She wiped the death damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute chords low
Had stilled his heart so oft.