Or she had sacred kept the bower,
The temple of our parting kiss,
For well love cherishes each thing
That has a memory of its bliss.
I stood beneath the old oak tree,
My harp was on my shoulder slung,
When suddenly a plaining breeze,
Like to a dirge, across it rung.
And almost, as in mockery,
Answered a light and cheerful sound—
Young voices singing to the flute,
And distant bells that pealed around.
I saw bright torches, and I went
To gaze upon the gay parade—
It was a bridal pageantry,
And the bride was my faithless Zaide!
Oh, worse than death! I had not thought
That such a thing could be; too well
My heart had loved, to deem that aught
Like falsehood could be possible.
Farewell then, Zaide, with that farewell
To all that bears a woman's name:
Heart, harp, and sword, were vowed to thee,
They'll never know another's claim.
I take thy white scarf from my heart,
And fling its fragments on the air;
Thy bright curl—no, I cannot part
With this one pledge—thy silken hair.
My heart is seared—I have lost all
My dreams of bliss, my golden store;
For, what is life when love is gone?
And what is love when hope is o'er?L. E. L.
