The Test

Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pallEnwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire(Death, pale, triumphant rival, conquering all,)

They came, for that last look, around his pyre.One strewed white roses, on whose leaves were hungHer tears, like dew; and in discreet attire

Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next amongThe group, a fair-haired virgin moved serenely,Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung,

Reached the calm dust, and there, composed and queenly,Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand:“That’s with the past,” she said, “nor may I meanly

Give way to tears!” and passed into the land.The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning,With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand,

So weak they seemed,—and all her passion owning.The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came,Half for such homage to the dead atoning

By smiles on one who fanned a later flameIn her slight soul, her fickle steps attended.The fifth and sixth were sisters; at the same

Wild moment both above the image bended,And with immortal hatred each on eachGlared, and therewith her exultation blended,

To know the dead had ’scaped the other’s reach!Meanwhile, through all the words of anguish spoken,One lowly form had given no sound of speech,

Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token;But when they came to bear him to his rest,They found her beauty paled,—her heart was broken:

And in the Silent Land his shade confestThat she, of all the seven, loved him best.