Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/130

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A night-black garb around her swept: Drear contrast! for her hair yet kept Amid its wealth of sunny curls The bridal snowy braid of pearls. She paused not, though her breath seem'd given But as the last to waft to heaven, And on the vacant throne laid down The dove-topp'd wand of rule and crown. From many never pass'd away That sweet voice to their dying day.

"My hand is all too weak to bear A sceptre which the sword must share. To my bold kinsman I resign All sway and sovereignty of mine; Bear him the sceptre of the land, No longer fetter'd by that hand."