"Drink! and wave high the flaming pines;
God bless the bride so fair!
May a goodly race, like clustering vines,
Twine round the wedded pair!"
The "vivas" rung for the noble race,
Till they stirred the banners of gold,
And the bridegroom bow'd with a stately grace;
But the bride sat mute and cold—
For the air seemed heavy as that of graves,
And the lights burned lurid and chill;
And she hears the dash of the far-off waves,
And the creak of the mighty mill.
The "vivas" sound like an infant's wail,
Or a demon's laugh of scorn.
"Oh! would to God," she murmured, all pale,
"That I had never been born!"
Full seven years have passed and flown—
But years o'er Thekla lightly pass,
As rose leaves, falling one by one,
From roses on the summer grass.
"It is our bridal day," she said;
"We're bidden to a christ'ning feast
I'll wear the robe I had when wed,
The robe I love of all the best.
"I'll wear my crown of jewels rare:
On brow and bosom let them shine;
Yet diamonds in my golden hair
Were dull beside these eyes of mine!"