Iii

Votive maid, who hath espousal Of the river's high carousal; Twenty cubits if he rise, This shall be his bridal prize.

Calm, and meek of face and carriage, Deigning scarce a quicker breath, Comes she to the funeral marriage, The betrothal of black death.

Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers, Nails whereon the onyx lingers, Clasped, as at a lover's tale, In the bosom's marble vale.