He led Her to the Altar.
Copied by permission of Firth, Pond & Co., 547 Broadway, N. Y., publishers of the music.
He led her to the altar,
But the bride was not his chosen;
He led her with a hand as cold
As though its pulse had frozen.
Flowers were crush’d beneath his tread,
A gilded dome was o’er him;
But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale,
As the marble steps before him.
CHORUS.
He led her to the altar,
But the bride was not his chosen;
He led her with a hand as cold
As though its pulse had frozen.
His soul was sadly dreaming,
Of one he had hoped to cherish;
Of a name and form that the sacred rites,
Beginning, told must perish.
He gazed not on the stars and gems
Of those who circled round him;
But trembled as his lips gave forth
The words that falsely bound him.
He led her to the altar, &c.
Many a heart was praising,
Many a hand was proffer’d;
But mournfully he turn’d him
From the greeting that was offer’d.
Despair had fix’d upon his brow
Its deepest, saddest token,
And the bloodless cheek and stifled sigh
Betray’d his heart was broken.
He led her to the altar, &c.