THE OMEN.
289
Dwelt on a face all glad and fair,
Mid its thousand curls of sunny hair.
They raised the cup to pledge her name;
Again that strange sad music came,
But a single strain,—loud at its close
A cry from the outer crowd arose.
All rush'd to gaze; and, winding through
The length of the castle avenue,
There was a hearse with its plumes of snow,
And its night-black horses moved heavy and slow,
One moment,—they came to the festal hall,
And bore in the coffin and velvet pall.
A name was whisper'd; the young, the fair,
Their Edith was laid in her last sleep there.
It was her latest prayer to lie
In the churchyard beneath her native sky;
U
