Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles, But never came to shore.

A love that took an early root, And had an early doom.

A Hebrew knelt in the dying light, His eye was dim and cold, The hairs on his brow were silver-white, And his blood was thin and old.

He stood beside a cottage lone And listened to a lute, One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone, And the nightingale was mute.