Yes! tender husband! wipe the few
Death pearls from her forehead fair;
They are not those pearls once given by you,
And twined in her chestnut hair.
’Tis true—’tis true—’tis her bridal day,
But the bridal is not of earth;
She will sit no more in her white array,
The pride of the cheerful hearth;
As once she sat, when, young and fair,
She gave thee her virgin hand,