G. Wallingford Clarke

AND they have laid thee in thy narrow cell,

Maid of the matchless brow!—for the cold clay

To be thy bridegroom, till the eternal day,

When the loud trump its judgment peal shall swell.

So be it,—what the Almighty dooms is well,—

But who that saw thine eyes’ bright glances play,

Thy cheek’s fine flush, that mock’d the blooms of May,

So late—could dream of death’s dissolving spell?

To rapture love had sung—“the bright eyed hour

Soon will I lead along, with Hymen’s train,

To bless the blushing virgin, and the swain;—

And hope believed, and lighted up her bower;

Sudden the scene was changed—a radiant flower

Sunk its sweet head—and love’s glad song was vain!