xxxv.
A throng is gathering; for the hallow'd dome,
At evening tide, is rich with sparkling light,—
And from its verdant bound each rural home
Sends forth its blossom'd gifts, profusely bright;
While here and there, amid the clustering flowers,
Some stately chief or painted warrior towers,
Hail'd as a brother, 'mid the festal rite:
Peace waves her garland o'er the favour'd place
Where weds the new-born West with Europe's lordly race.
xxxvi.
A group before the altar.—Breathe thy vow,
Loving and stainless one,—without a fear;
For he who wins thee to his bosom now,
Gem of the wild, unparallel'd, and dear,
Will guard thee ever, as his treasure rare,
With changeless tenderness and constant care;—
How speaks his noble brow a soul sincere,
While the old white-hair'd king, with eye of pride,
Gives to his ardent hand the timid, trusting bride.
xxxvii.
Not with more heartfelt joy the warlike bands
Of Albion, spent with long, disastrous fray,
Beheld young Tudor cleanse his blood-stain'd hands,
And lead the blooming heir of York away,
