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,—
Her jewelled bodice fell apart,
A jewelled dagger pierced her heart.
To find her foe, men strove in vain;
Again they sought, 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.
