[“It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and the bridal-song is sung over her remains before they are borne from her home.”—Narrative of a Ten Years’ Residence in Tripoli, by the Sister-in-law of Mr Tully.]
The citron-groves their fruit and flowers were strewing
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh
Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing
With music through their shadowy bowers went by;
Music and voices, from the marble halls
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.
A song of joy, a bridal-song came swelling
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,