Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon,
When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east,
Wiwaste sings at the Virgins' Feast;
And bright is the light in her luminous eyes;
They glow like the stars in the winter skies;
And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart
Their golden blush to her cheeks impart--
Her cheeks half-hid in her midnight hair.
Fair is her form--as the red fawn's fair--
And long is the flow of her raven hair;
It falls to her knees and it streams on the breeze
Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.
Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair,
For none but a virgin may enter there.
'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing;
Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare,
If a tarnished maiden should enter there.
And her that enters the Sacred Ring
With a blot that is known or a secret stain
The warrior who knows is bound to expose,
And lead her forth from the ring again.
And the word of a brave is the fiat of law;
For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing.
Aside with the mothers sat Harpstina;
She durst not enter the Virgins' ring.
Round and round to the merry song
The maidens dance in their gay attire,
While the loud _Ho-Ho's_ of the tawny throng
Their flying feet and their song inspire.
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