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THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY
THIRD PART.
'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bell
Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle;
And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride,
And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside
At the work shall be doing.
Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle;
And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride,
And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside
At the work shall be doing.
While down through the wood rides that fair companie,
The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee,—
Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once
All the maids sigh demurely, and think for the nonce,
"And so endeth a wooing!"
The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee,—
Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once
All the maids sigh demurely, and think for the nonce,
"And so endeth a wooing!"
And the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way,
With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say:
Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath,—
And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath,
When she sigheth or speaketh.
With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say:
Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath,—
And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath,
When she sigheth or speaketh.
And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware
From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,—
Till in nearing the chapel, and glancing before,
She seeth her little son stand at the door,—
Is it play that he seeketh?
From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,—
Till in nearing the chapel, and glancing before,
She seeth her little son stand at the door,—
Is it play that he seeketh?
Is it play? when his eyes wander innocent-wild,
And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child!
He trembles not, weeps not—the passion is done,
And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun
On his head like a glory.
And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child!
He trembles not, weeps not—the passion is done,
And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun
On his head like a glory.
"O fair-featured maids, ye are many!" he cried,—
"But, in fairness and vileness, who matcheth the bride?
O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whom,
For the courage and woe, can ye match with the groom,
As ye see them before ye?"
"But, in fairness and vileness, who matcheth the bride?
O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whom,
For the courage and woe, can ye match with the groom,
As ye see them before ye?"
