6
THE FUNERAL BRIDE.
An Italian Legend.
It is but daybreak—yet Count Leon's halls
Are crowded with the young, the fair, the gay;
And there is music, and all sign of mirth—
The board that shines with silver, and with wine
Sparkling like liquid ruby in bright cups;
Flowers are strewn over the white marble floor;
And every beauty wears a snowy robe,
Blushing most consciously at the soft words
That dark-eyed cavaliers are whispering.
It is a bridal—but where is the bride?
Enter yon lofty room—the bride is there.
Jewels are by her that a king might give,
His favourite daughter's dower; and her bright hair
Has pearls that Cleopatra might have worn,
Pure as just from the ocean treasure-cave;—
They are the lover's gifts, and he is one
Of Genoa's richest nobles; and the bride,
Genoa has no loveliness like hers.
The orange buds were placed upon her breast,
Yet Isabel moved not: paused she to take
One last look on the sweet face in her mirror—
To watch the rainbow-light her coronet
Threw o'er her forehead from its many gems?
Oh, no! where is the conscious smile, the flush,
That should light lady's cheek at such a time?
Her mother saw—albeit she would not seem
To mark the absence of the maiden's mind,
But led her forth where friends and kinsmen stay'd
Her entrance in the gay and gorgeous hall:
Pity was mix'd with wonder as she came—
Wonder at her exceeding loveliness—
And pity—there were many knew her heart
And hand went not together. There she stood,
Like the sweet rising of the summer moon,—
Beautiful, but so very, very wan,
The crimson even from her lip was gone.
