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But now the notes I waked were sad, As those the pining wood-dove sings.

THE INDIAN BRIDE.

has lighted her lamp, and crowned it with flowers, The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours; Red and white roses linked in a band, Like a maiden's blush, or a maiden's hand; Jasmines,—some like silver spray, Some like gold in the morning ray; Fragrant stars,—and favourites they, When Indian girls, on a festival-day, Braid their dark tresses: and over all weaves The rosy bower of lotus leaves— Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark, Love's own flowers, and Love's own ark.