And oft the huntsman by his side,
  Would warn him from the fatal tide,
  And whisper in his heedless ear,
  To think upon his mother’s tear,
  Should aught of ill or harm befall
  Her child, her hope, her life, her all;
  And bade him, for more sakes than one,
  The desperate, dangerous leap to shun. 
  He smiled, and gave the herdsman’s prayer. 
  And all his counsel to the air,
  And laughed to see the old man’s eye,
  Fix’d in imploring agony.

  Where the wild stream’s eternal strife,
  Wake the dark echoes into life,
  Where rudely o’er the rock it gushes,
  Lost in its everlasting foam;
  And swift the channeled water rushes,
  With ceaseless roar and endless storm;
  And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high,
  Hang fearful o’er the darkened sky;
  And o’er the dim and shadowy deep,
  Yawning, presents a deathful leap. 
  The boy has gained that desperate brink,
  And not a moment will he think
  Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears
  That are entwined in his young years.

  The old man stretched his arms in air,
  And vainly warned him to forbear: 
  Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay,
  And mark the dread abyss beneath;
  Destruction wings thee on thy way,
  And leads thee to an awful death.

  He said no more, for on the air
  Rose the deep murmuring of despair;
  One shriek of agonizing woe
  Broke on his ear, and all was o’er;
  For midst the waves’ eternal flow,
  The boy had sank to rise no more.

  When springing from the dizzy steep,
  He winged his way ’twixt earth and sky,
  The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
  And starting back, he shunned the leap,
  And by this fatal check he drew
  Death on himself and master too.

  But those wild waves of death and strife
  Flowed deeply, wildly as before,
  Though he was reft of light and life,
  And sunk in death to rise no more.

  And he was gone! his mother’s smile
  No more shall welcome his return. 
  Ah! little did she think the while,
  Her fate through life would be to mourn! 
  And his stern sire; how will he brook
  The tale that tells his child is low! 
  How will the haughty tyrant look,
  And writhe beneath the hopeless blow! 
  While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
  Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure. 
  Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye
  Shall shed the sympathizing tear;
  Hopeless and childless shalt thou die,
  And none shall mourn above thy bier. 
  Thy race extinct; no more thy name
  Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.

  Thou art the last! with thee shall die
  Thy proud descent and lineage high;
  No more on Barden’s hills shall swell
  The mirth inspiring bugle note;
  No more o’er mountain, vale and, dell,
  Its well known sounds shall wildly float. 
  Other sounds shall steal along,
  Other music swell the song;
  The deep funeral wail of wo,
  In solemn cadence, now shall spread
  Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
  In requiem dirges for the dead.