EPITHALAMIUM.
107
The shifting colours prove by turns
The 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 thee
From his arms that would enfold thee;
Kiss, and take a short farewell,—
They wish the chance to them befell.
Mighty Love demands his crown
Now 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!
