That holy sorrow might have awed The very wind--but mockingly It flung his matted hair abroad, As trifling with her agony, And with a low and moaning wail Bore on its wings the bridal veil; Then came a cold and starry ray, And on his marble forehead lay. Father of heaven! she could not brook That floating hair, that rigid look. With one quick gasp she forward sprung, And to the helm in frenzy clung, Until the barque shot on its way Where a dense shadow darkest lay; And there, as shrouded with a pall, The barge swept to the very shore; The fell hyena's fiendish call Rang wildly to her ear once more, And from the deep dark solitude She saw the hungry jackall creep, And whimper for his nightly food, Where many a monster lay asleep Just in the margin of the flood, As resting from a feast of blood. Around the corpse the widow flung Her snowy arms, and madly clung To that cold bosom, whence a chill Shot through her heart, and frantic still Her eyes in horror turned to seek That prowling beast, whose hungry jaws Worked fiercely and began to reek With eager foam, as with his paws He tore the turf impatiently, And howling snuffed the passing clay. It was not that she feared to die; In the deep stillness of her heart, Her spirit prayed most fervently There with the dead to hold its part. The only boon she cared to crave, Was for them both a christian grave; But oh! the agonizing thought! That in her madness she had brought That loved and lost one, for a feast, To vulture and to prowling beast, Where all things fierce and wild had come To howl a horrid requiem. But soon a stronger current bore The freight of death from off the shore; Again the trembling starlight broke Above the still and changing clay, And with its pearly kisses woke The widow from her trance, who lay Convulsed and shivering with dread, Her white arms clinging to the dead; For yet the stilly night wind bore The wild beasts' disappointed roar. Within the far o'erhanging wood, A bulbul listening to her heart, Poured forth upon the air a flood Of gushing love;--with lips apart The widow clasped her trembling hands, And bent her ear to catch the strain, As if a seraph's low commands Were breathed into her soul;--again, That heavenly sound came gushing out, Like waters in their leaping shout; Over her heart's deep frozen spring The gentle strain went lingering, And touched each icy tear that slept With sudden life, until she wept. * * * * *