Page:Songs of the Affections.pdf/153

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Never to thy lip and cheek Rush'd again the crimson streak. Never to thine eye return'd That which there had beam'd and burn'd! With the secret none might know, With thy rapture or thy woe, With thy marriage-robe and wreath, Thou wert fled, young bride of death! One, one lightning moment there Struck down triumph to despair. Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, Into darkness—terror—dust!

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee, Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, Deaf to that wild funeral wail. Yet perchance a chastening thought, In some deeper spirit wrought,