When mirth and rosy wine are there.
In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light
And flowers, I ween a holy rite,
Most cherished with the young and bright,
By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.
And who art thou around whose brow
The bridal chaplet sparkled now?
That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she
Thus standing there so radiantly?—
With bright curls floating on the air