Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/189

Rh

She spoke again,—no words came forth; She clasped his hand,—she raised his head,— One wild loud scream, she sank beside, As pale, as cold, almost as dead!

By the Ganges raised, for the morning sun To shed his earliest beams upon, Is a funeral pile,—around it stand Priests and the hired mourners' band. But who is she that so wildly prays To share the couch and light the blaze? 's love, while scornful eye And chilling jeers mock her agony: An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name!