Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/143

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SELLA.
137
As might beseem a river-nymph's soft eyesGracing a bridal of the race whose flocksWere pastured on the borders of her stream. She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the smileWas soon to pass away. That very mornThe elder of the brothers, as he stoodUpon the hillside, had beheld the maid,Emerging from the channel of the brook,With three fresh water lilies in her hand,Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleftOf hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs,Bestow the spangled slippers. None beforeHad known where Sella hid them. Then she laidThe light brown tresses smooth, and in them twinedThe lily buds, and hastily drew forthAnd threw across her shoulders a light robeWrought for the bridal, and with bounding steps
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