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 a 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!