'Neath the wave thy lover sleeps,
⁠And cold, cold is his pillow;
O'er his bed no maiden weeps,
⁠Where rolls the white billow.
And though the winds have sunk to rest
Upon the ocean's troubled breast,
Yet still, oh still there's left behind
A restless storm in Ellen's mind.

Her heart is on yon dark'ning wave,
⁠Where all she lov'd is lying,
And where around her William's grave,
⁠The sea-bird is crying.
And oft on Jura's lonely shore,
Where surges beat and billows roar,
She sat—but grief has nipt her bloom,
And there they made young Ellen's tomb.