THE VICTIM BRIDE.
By W.H. Harrison.
I saw her in her summer bow'r, and oh! upon my sight
Methought there never beam'd a form more beautiful and bright!
So young, so fair, she seem'd as one of those aerial things
That live but in the poet's high and wild imaginings;
Or like those forms we meet in dreams from which we wake, and weep
That earth has no creation like the figments of our sleep.
Her parent—loved not he his child above all earthly things!
As traders love the merchandize from which their profit springs: