I.
So was despair, in our heart-broken Bride,
Quenched, rudely quenched—in that tumultuous tide!—
But if that self-forgetting Life was passed,
To peace, it seemed, it had been lulled at last.
For one who by the river's side
Far lower down, that day by chance descried
A floating form he could not aid,
Glide swiftly by, soon after said
The Maiden lay, as past she hied,
Upon her back as on a quiet bed.
Her eyes were closed—the lashes long and sleek,
Reposing on the placid cheek;
Along the yellow waters wild
Her jet-black tresses softly streamed;
And though careworn, just then it seemed,
Her face was so serene and mild,
So mournful, yet with meek content so deep,—
She looked an innocent Child,
Laid on its couch asleep.
And that informant told them how they found,
Cast on the gravel by the riverside,
The body of the Maiden drowned.
