Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/298

Rh

Dwelt on a face all glad and fair, Mid its thousand curls of sunny hair. They raised the cup to pledge her name; Again that strange sad music came, But a single strain,—loud at its close A cry from the outer crowd arose.

All rush'd to gaze; and, winding through The length of the castle avenue, There was a hearse with its plumes of snow, And its night-black horses moved heavy and slow, One moment,—they came to the festal hall, And bore in the coffin and velvet pall. A name was whisper'd; the young, the fair, Their was laid in her last sleep there. It was her latest prayer to lie In the churchyard beneath her native sky;