The Bride (Sigourney)

, but she was gone. In her fair home, There lay her lute, just as she touched it last, At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favourite seat Lay the still open work-box, and that book Which last she read, its pencil'd margin mark'd By an ill-quoted passage—trac'd, perchance, With hand unconscious, while her lover spake That dialect which brings forgetfulness Of all beside. It was the cherish'd home, Where from her childhood she had been the star Of hope and joy. I came—and she was gone. Yet I had seen her from the altar led, With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, The fresh, young rose-bud, deepening in her cheek, And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought Of one who gives a priceless gift away. And there was silence 'mid the gather'd throng. The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire Shrink as with smother'd sorrow, when he gave His darling to an untried guardianship, And to a far-off clime. Haply his thought Travers'd the grass-grown prairies, and the shore Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs, And pathless mountain-tops, that rose to bar Her log-rear'd mansion from the anxious eye Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt How strong and beautiful is woman's love. Which, taking in its hand its thornless joys, The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, Yea! and its own life also—lays them all Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast, Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope Which hath its root in God. Mock not with mirth A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones; The licens'd jesters lip, the dancer's heel— What do they here? Joy, serious and sublime, Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand, Fill'd with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on That harness which the ministry of death Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power May stamp the sentence of eternity.