University of Virginia Library

“BRING,” saith the Hindoo wife, “the flame,”
“And pile the crackling faggots high;
In joy and woe, in pride and shame,
With thee I lived—with thee I'll die—
In streams of fire my soul shall be
Upborne to thee!”
So, round my heart, consuming love
The dark, funereal pyre uprears;
Onward the rolling moments move,
And Death—the Merciful! appears,—
But oh—the bitter pang! to be
Removed from thee.
Oh, could my heart again be still,
Though 'twere the grave that held my mould,
I'd seek the shadowed mystery,—
The silent chamber, dark and cold;—
Yet life—dear life! would priceless be
If shared with thee.
But now, the flames to ashes turn;
The wine to blood—oh ghastly sight!
The pall half drapes the sculptured urn
Where faintly burns yon spectral light,
And shadowy phantoms beckon me
Away—from thee.
Come to the house! 'tis deadly still—
Sombre, and low, and chill, and wet,
With earth-worms writhing o'er the sill,
Earthy, and mouldy, smelleth it;
'Tis mine—my mansion reared for me
By thee!—By thee!