I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;—
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.—
Why doth a mother live to say—My first-born and my dead!
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won:
Speak thou, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!”
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young—
A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:—
“Ianthis! look’st thou not on me? Can love indeed be fled?
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head?