The Citron groves their fruit and flowers were strewing
Around a Moorish palace, and the sigh
Of summer's gentlest wind, the branches wooing,
With music through their twilight-bowers went by;
Music and voices from the marble halls,
Through the leaves gleaming, midst the fountain-falls.
A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,
And lights, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids;
And thus it flow'd;—yet something in the lay
Belong'd to sadness as it died away.
"The Bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling
To leave the chamber of her infant years,
Kind voices from another home are calling,
She comes like day-spring—she hath done with tears!
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers,
Her bright smile gladden other hearts than ours!
—Pour the rich odours round!
"We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing,
Love still goes with her from her place of birth,
Deep silent joy within her heart is springing,
For this alone her glance hath less of mirth!
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years,
Her sisters weep—but she hath done with tears!
Now may the timbrel sound!"
Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal numbers?
—One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more!
One whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers,
Nor Love's own sigh to rose-tints might restore!
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread—
—Weep for the young, the beautiful, the dead!F. H.
- ↑ * It is a custom among the Moors to sing the bridal song when the funeral of an unmarried woman is borne from her home.
