30 BRIDAL DIRGE. BRIDAL DIRGE. HE bride is dead! The bride is dead! And a flower is at her head; And the breeze above her sigheth, Thorough night and thorough day, Once, but what can that avail,— And upon her cheek a blossom Mourn the sweetest bride is dead, And her knight is sick with sorrow, He may kiss his love to-morrow. |