He led her to the altar, 
But the bride was not his chosen j 
He led her, with a hand as cold 
As though its pulse had frozen. 
Blowers were crushed beneath his tread, 
A gilded dome was o’er him; 
But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale, 
As the marble steps before him. 
His soul was sadly dreaming 
Of one he had hoped to cherish; 
Of a name and form that the sacred rites. 
Beginning, told must perish. 
He gazed not on the stars and gems 
Of those who circled round him; 
But trembled as his lips gave forth 
The words that falsely bound him . 
Despair had fixed upon his brow 
Its deepest, saddest token; 
And the bloodless cheek, the stifled sigh, 
Betrayed his heart was broken. 
Eliza Cook. 
Ir'Btr 
