The pipe, the viol, and unceasing drum

Thinks, like a phoenix, ’tis her fate to rise Pure from her ashes, to adorn the skies.

It is some jubilee;—it cannot be, That death is hailed with such a savage glee.

Why rush the thousands? Why this grand display Of pomp and pride? A widow burns today!

What joy is breaking from her large dark eye— The vivid lightnings of a tropic sky! The rosy veil is archly drawn aside To show the glances she affects to hide. ’Tis all a modest maiden dare betray— The sudden sparkle of a meteor’s play.

Death had gone over like a wild simoom, And marked her youthful husband for the tomb. And must he only suffer? Still the pride Of youth and beauty lives, the lovely bride. She, too, must die: some savage god, unknown To Christian climes, …

Heroes have shrunk before the torture’s wheel, And ev’n in martyrdom have stooped to feel. Yet here, each day, in agonising fires, For sinful man some gentle dame expires.