Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?—
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!
“Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread;
But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins flew—
Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu?
What now can breathe of gladness more,—what scene, what hour, what tone?
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone!
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved:
Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”