On a Lady Whom Grief for the Death of Her Betrothed Killed

Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door,And all ye loves, assemble; far and wideProclaim the bridal, that proclaimed beforeHas been deferred to this late eventide:For on this night the bride,The days of her betrothal over,Leaves the parental hearth for evermore;To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover.

Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lainYet all unvisited, the silken gown:Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chainHer dearer friends provided: sere and brownBring out the festal crown,And set it on her forehead lightly:Though it be withered, twine no wreath again;This only is the crown she can wear rightly.

Cloke her in ermine, for the night is cold,And wrap her warmly, for the night is long,In pious hands the flaming torches hold,While her attendants, chosen from amongHer faithful virgin throng,May lay her in her cedar litter,Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold,Roses, and lilies white that best befit her.

Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal beNot without music, nor with these alone;But let the viol lead the melody,With lesser intervals, and plaintive moanOf sinking semitone;And, all in choir, the virgin voicesRest not from singing in skilled harmonyThe song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices.

Let the priests go before, arrayed in white,And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow,Next they that bear her, honoured on this night,And then the maidens, in a double row,Each singing soft and low,And each on high a torch upstaying:Unto her lover lead her forth with light,With music, and with singing, and with praying.

'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came,And found her trusty window open wide,And knew the signal of the timorous flame,That long the restless curtain would not hideHer form that stood beside;As scarce she dared to be delighted,Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shameTo faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted.

But now for many days the dewy grassHas shown no markings of his feet at morn:And watching she has seen no shadow passThe moonlit walk, and heard no music borneUpon her ear forlorn.In vain has she looked out to greet him;He has not come, he will not come, alas!So let us bear her out where she must meet him.

Now to the river bank the priests are come:The bark is ready to receive its freight:Let some prepare her place therein, and someEmbark the litter with its slender weight:The rest stand by in state,And sing her a safe passage over;While she is oared across to her new home,Into the arms of her expectant lover.

And thou, O lover, that art on the watch,Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams,The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatchThe sweeter moments of their broken dreams,--Thou, when the torchlight gleams,When thou shalt see the slow procession,And when thine ears the fitful music catch,Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession.

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dipsIn juice of plants that no bee sips,He takes, and with his bow renown'dGoes out upon his hunting ground,Hanging his quiver at his hips.

He draws them one by one, and clipsTheir heads between his finger-tips,And looses with a twanging soundHis poisoned shafts.

But if a maiden with her lipsSuck from the wound the blood that drips,And drink the poison from the wound,The simple remedy is foundThat of their deadly terror stripsHis poisoned shafts.

When first we met we did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master;Of more than common friendlinessWhen first we met we did not guess.Who could foretell this sore distress,This irretrievable disasterWhen first we met?--We did not guessThat Love would prove so hard a master.

All women born are so perverseNo man need boast their love possessing.If nought seem better, nothing's worse:All women born are so perverse.From Adam's wife, that proved a curseThough God had made her for a blessing,All women born are so perverseNo man need boast their love possessing.

It is a lady fairWhom once he deigned to praise,That at the door doth dareHer sad complaint to raise.

She must be fair of face,As bold of heart she seems,If she would match her graceWith the delight of dreams.

Her beauty would surpriseGazers on Autumn eves,Who watched the broad moon riseUpon the scattered sheaves.

O sweet must be the voiceHe shall descend to hear,Who doth in Heaven rejoiceHis most enchanted ear.

The smile, that rests to playUpon her lip, foretellsWhat musical arrayTricks her sweet syllables

And yet her smiles have dancedIn vain, if her discourseWin not the soul entrancedIn divine intercourse.

She will encounter allThis trial without shame,Her eyes men Beauty call,And Wisdom is her name.

Throw back the portals then,Ye guards, your watch that keep,Love will awake againThat lay so long asleep.