“We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing;
Love still goes with her from her place of birth;
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing,
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth!
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years;
Her sisters weep—but she hath done with tears!—
Now may the timbrel sound!”
Know’st thou for whom they sang the bridal numbers?—
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more!
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers,