Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/228

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Maiden, fling from thy cheek of snow The chain where the Eastern rubies glow; For he who gave thee that jewell'd chain Lies in his wounds on the battle plain.

Maiden, fling thou aside thy lute, Be its chords, as thy own hopes, mute; For he who first taught thy lips that strain Never will listen its music again.

Give those roses to strew on his grave, That chain for a mass for the soul of the brave, And teach that lute, thou widow'd dove, A dirge for the fall of thy warrior love.

"! that ever," said, "The fond should mourn above the dead,