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BRIDAL DIRGE.

BRIDAL DIRGE.

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,
"Fled away!-Fled away!"

Once, but what can that avail,—
Once, she wore within her bosom
Pity, which did never fail,
A hue that dashed the lily pale ;
And upon her cheek a blossom
Such as yet was never known:
—All is past and overthrown!

Mourn the sweetest bride is dead,

And her knight is sick with sorrow,
That her bloom is "lapped in lead:"
Yet he hopeth, fancy-fed,

He may kiss his love to-morrow.
But the breezes-what say they?
"Fled away!-Fled away!"

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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."

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