Moorish Bridal Song

The citron groves their fruit and flowers were strewing Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches wooing, With music through their shadowy bowers went by; Music and voices, from the marble halls, Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls. A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling, To blend with fragrance in those southern shades, And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids; And thus it flow'd;-yet something in the lay Belong'd to sadness, as it died away. 'The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling To leave the chamber of her infant years; Kind voices from distant home are calling; She comes like day-spring-she hath done with tears; Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours! -Pour the rich odours round! '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, Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore! Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread.- -Weep for the young, the beautiful,-the dead!