Earl March look'd on his dying child,
⁠And smit with grief to view her—
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
⁠Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour,
⁠His coming to discover;
And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
⁠And she look'd on her lover.

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
⁠Though her smile on him was dwelling.
And am I then forgot—forgot?—
⁠It broke the heart of Ellen.

​In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
⁠Her cheek is cold as ashes,
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
⁠To lift their silken lashes.