Like a royal rose,—the story saith,—
Peerless and pale, with a rose's breath
At her parted lips, she lay in death.
Her braids were held by a jewelled dart,—
And, where her bodice fell apart,
A jewelled dagger pierced her heart.
To find her foe, men strove in vain;
They sought again and yet again,—
But no one mourned with my brother's pain;
For he had loved her from the hour
His father won her with that dower
Of beauty, rare as an aloe's flower;
And she loved him till our father died;
Then something—was it grief or pride?—
Made her as marble at his side.
They say—the vassals of our race—
She wore thenceforth a wintry grace,
Like the frozen scorn on her fair dead face;
And though my brother strove at morn
And eve to comfort her, forlorn,
She met him still with that cruel scorn.
