When wounded he wins to the darkest wood,
There if he can to die alone?'

Unsought by the archer whose shaft has flown
So right and true to its living mark
That it quenches e'en now the vital spark,
Zamorna is this nobly done,
⁠To triumph o'er your Consort's sire,
Gladly to see his gory sun
⁠Quench in the sea of tears its fire?
But haply you have news to tell,
Tidings that yet may cheer me well;
You've crushed at last my rose's bloom,
And scattered its leaves on her mother's tomb.