Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/109

 saw the flowers, and stretch'd

Her hand to grasp the wreath,

Poor dove! she fell-the stream roll'd on—

'Twas silence all—and death.

thrice, and thrice the funeral bell

Toll'd with a heavy tone:—

And tell mel—ye, who know so well,

What mortal soul is gone?

" is thy maiden—'tis thy joy—

See, 'midst that mist of gloom,

They fit her shroud—four black-rob'd men,

They lower her in her tomb."

belov'd! and dost thou take

My maiden in thy wrath!

Sweet bird of mercy! to her grave,

O, show me now the path.