Page:The Golden Threshold.djvu/46

 At fall of eventide he went To drink beside the river-head; A waiting hunter threw his dart, And struck my lover through the heart: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.

O little bride, why dost thou weep With all the happy world asleep?

Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will stay these hungry tears, Or still the want of famished years, And crown with love my marriage-bed? My soul burns with the quenchless fire That lit my lover's funeral pyre: Alas! alas! my lord is dead.