Why does the fringed lid thus lie
Moveless o'er her radiant eye?
Why so colorless her cheek?
Tell us why she does not speak—
Why comes not her gentle breath?
Ina is the bride of death!
Withered is the orange wreath—
Cold the forehead underneath!
Come, false bridegroom, who hath fled—
Come, and look upon the dead!
All your terrors naught avail—
Heart is still and bosom pale!
Wail and moan! you can not save—
Ina slumbers in the grave!
THE SILENT SHIP.
We were sitting in the starlight, by the gliding river's side—
He, a spirit pure and earnest—I, his sacred spirit-bride—
Sitting in the holy starlight falling from the jeweled sky
O'er the water just beneath us, flowing bright and silent by.
There was something dim and dreamy, and so solemn in the air,
And the earth was lying sweetly in her slumber still and fair;
And her breath had grown so quiet that a fold it did not stir
Of the green luxurious curtain drooping graceful over her.
Silent dew and silent starlight, silent earth and silent sky—
All was hushed save one faint murmur of the river flowing by—
And one low, dear tone of music, whispering in my thrilling ear,
Words so dreamlike in their beauty, that my soul could only hear;
Words so eloquent and gentle, that I never may forget—
They are ringing in sweet melody within my spirit yet!
