Unhappy Bride

The maiden gave the ring she wore To him who gave it her before: “O take the ring,—for thou and thine Are hated,—not by me,—but mine:— Father and mother will not hear thee, Brother and sister both forswear thee: Yet, think not, youth,—O think not ill Of her who needs must love thee still! I am a poor unhappy maid, Whose path the darkest clouds o’ershade; I sowed sweet basil, and there grew On that same spot the bitterest rue: And wormwood, that unholy flower, Is now alone my marriage dower; The only flower which they shall wear Who to the maiden’s marriage come, When for my marriage altar there The guests shall find the maiden’s tomb.”