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HE bride is dead! The bride is dead!
Cold and frail, and fair she lieth: Wrapped is she in sullen lead;
And a flower is at her head;
And the breeze above her sigheth,
Thorough night and thorough day,
Once, but what can that avail,—
Mourn the sweetest bride is dead,
And her knight is sick with sorrow,
He may kiss his love to-morrow.
H, mother! mother! on the height
I see a cloud arise;
And, look! against that speck of light
My father's standard flies.
Hark! surely 'tis the tramp of steeds
The night-breeze bears along,
Above the whisper of the reeds,
Above the owlet's song."