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Yet, will it be as when the past
Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
Of kind affections finely wrought ?
May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done !
If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won.
Most educated people are familiar with Spenser's lovely bridal song, “The Epithalamion," from which I select the following :
Open the temple gates unto my love !
Open them wide that she may enter in!
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
That cometh in to you.
She cometh in before the Almighty's view; Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places
To humble your proud faces :
The sacred ceremonies there partake
The which do endless matrimony make;
The praises of the Lord in lively notes ;
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
Like crimson dyed in grain ;
About the sacred altar do remain,
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,
The more they on it stare.
Are governed with goodly modesty
That suffers not a look to glance away Which
may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush you, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet angels, allelujah sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
There is nothing more beautiful in life than happy wedlock, when husband and wife can with joy recall
THE WEDDING MOON.
That glorified the land
Which bound us hand to hand.
In whose delicious beam
And dream our wedding dream.
Has Time dried up our hearts, wife,
In those ten married years ? Has Love quench'd all his darts, wife,
In stormful woes and tears ? Thou smilest! That is well, wife;
I answer with a smile!
That sweeten time and toil,
Hark to the merry din, wife-
Those silvery happy peals,
At young volatic heels!
For they are thine and mine;
Though fortune gloom or shine.
Blow tempest, or come wrack, wife,
Still mount we height o'er height, Along each misty track, wife,
Up to the morning light! Let hail or snow descend, wife,
Wind howl from crag to scalp, Still upward we shall wend, wife, To meet the All-true Friend, wife,
Lord of the Golden Alp.
So make my breast thy throne, wife,
This bridal eve of June-
New wed beneath the moon.
Ne'er fear, though shades abound, wife
Wing'd Hope is never far;
W. F. And these are worthy thoughts and feelings from the German of Kobell :
I go, when all is still,
What joy my heart does fill ;
So near and lovingly,
Looked tenderly on ine !
Joy words cannot impart,
And press them to my heart !
Loud in the tranquil night,
How vast is my delight.
I feel a sudden fear ;-
There are not many here:
For my great happiness !”
Too often, indeed, woman's lot in life is as Moore
THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.
By secret sorrow close conceald,
What must not be reveald.
To speak when one would silent be;
And wake to agony.
Who wander in this world of care,
To save them from despair.
Where disappointment cannot come,
But surely under the worst trials true love is indestructible, as Southey tells us :
They sin who tell us love can die !