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EPITHALAMIUM.
107
The shifting colours prove by turnsThe torch of Love unsteady burns.Pleading now, now lingering, fainting,Her soft heart with fear is panting;—Cling not to thy mother so,Thy mother smiles, and bids thee go.
Mind not what thy maidens say;Though they chide the cruel day,Though they weep, and strive to hold theeFrom his arms that would enfold thee;Kiss, and take a short farewell,—They wish the chance to them befell.
Mighty Love demands his crownNow for all his sufferings done;For all Love's tears, for all his sighs,Thyself must be the sacrifice.Virgin, brighter than the day,Haste from thy chamber, come away!
