'Neath the sweet music of the marriage bells;
Then on those tented hills, and ravaged dells,
The War of Roses died: no more the ray
Of white or red, the fires of hate illumed,
But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloom'd.
XXXVIII.
Within thy bower methinks I view thee still:
The meek observance of thy lifted eye,
Bent on thy lord, and prompt to do his will,
The care for him, the happiness to see
His soul's full confidence repose in thee,
The sacrifice of self, the ready skill
In duty's path, the love without alloy,
These gave each circling year a brighter crown of joy.
XXXIX.
Out, out upon the waters! Surging foam,
Swell'd by the winds, rolls round her wild and free,
And memory wandereth to her distant home,
To fragrant gales, the blossom'd boughs that stir,
To the sad sire, who fondly dreams of her;
But kindling smiles recall the thoughts that roam,
For at her side a bright-hair'd nursling plays,
While bends her bosom's lord, with fond, delighted gaze.
XL.
Though in the trackless wilderness she dwell,
Or on the cliff where hangs the Switzer's cot,
Or in the subterranean Greenland cell,
