33
She ceased; and round the funeral pile
The seven-fold circuit she has made,
And with a sweet seraphic smile
She gently droops her radiant head
Beside the ghastly corse—so calm,
So saint-like are those placid eyes,
So softly breathes the lip's rich balm,
So faint and indistinct her sighs,
In some blest trance she seems to be,
Or day's delicious reverie.
Darting a scornful glance on all,
And flinging down with conscious pride
(As if her limbs disdained their thrall)
Her costly gems—the elder bride,
Like an offended goddess stands,
With glowing cheeks, and flashing eyes,
And clasping both her out-stretched hands,
Revolting at the sacrifice—
