Yet, will it be as when the past
Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
And o'er our minds one mantle cast
Of kind affections finely wrought?
Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne'er can meet again!
May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done!
For, kind and gentle as thou art,
If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won.
Bright may the sacred torch remain,
And cheer thee till we meet again!
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 posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For, to receive this saint with honour due
That cometh in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence
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:
Bring her up to the high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake-
The which do endless matrimony make;
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throats,
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo
Behold, while she before the altar stands
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain
Like crimson dyed in grain;
That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,
Forget their service, and about her fly,
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes, still fasten'd on the ground,
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.
Lo! yonder is the moon, wife,
That glorified the land
On that sweet eve of June, wife,
Which bound us hand to hand.
And lo! the laughing star, wife,
In whose delicious beam
We wander'd oft and far, wife,
To heal each day's one scar, wife,
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!
Thine eye has still the spell, wife,
Thy lips the hydromel, wife,
That sweeten time and toil.
Hark to the merry din, wife--
Those silvery happy peals,
That twangle out and in, wife,
At young volatic heels!
We know them all, them all, wife,
For they are thine and mine;
They call on us, they call, wife,
To faint not nor to fall, wife,
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
My life, my love, my own wife,
New wed beneath the moon.
Ne'er fear, though shades abound, wife—
Wing'd Hope is never far;
"Twill snatch us from the ground, wife,
To where the Pure shine round, wife-
Stars round the Morning Star.
And these are worthy thoughts and feelings from the German of Kobell:
LOVE'S HAPPINESS.
When from the loved one homewards
go, when all is still,
And think how blest that evening,
What joy my heart does fill ;
How I did sit beside her
So near and lovingly,
And how her eye, all brightness,
Looked tenderly on ine!
Then through my soul there rushes
Joy words cannot impart,
Then, all men-I could love them,
And press them to my heart!
And fain would loud proclaim it,
Loud in the tranquil night,
How rich my love has made me,
How vast is my delight.
Yet sometimes, while rejoicing,
I feel a sudden fear;
Of mortals really happy
There are not many here:
And then I pray in secret
To Him who all doth bless, "Oh, be not angry with me For my great happiness!"
Too often, indeed, woman's lot in life is as Moore describes it :
Rose of the garden! how unlike thy doom!
Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom;
Cull'd ere thy beauty lives through half its day;
A moment cherish'd, and then cast away.
Rose of the garden! such is woman's lot—
Worshipp❜d while blooming—when she fades, forgot.
THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.
When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close conceal'd,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be reveal'd.
'Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.
Yet such the lot by thousands cast,
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.
But nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come,
And time guides, with unerring feet,
The weary wanderer home.
But surely under the worst trials true love is indestructible, as Southey tells us :—
They sin who tell us love can die!
With life all other passions fly:
All others are but vanity.
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