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They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won— —Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, Ianthis! my sweet son!"

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young, A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung. —"Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?—Can love indeed be fled? When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head? I would that I had followed thee, Ianthis, my belov'd! And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are prov'd! That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side— —It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!

"But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine. Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart Fast gushing like a mountain-spring!—and couldst thou thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath? —Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!