THE BRIDE.
I came, but she was gone.
In her fair home,
There lay her lute, just as she touch'd it last,
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favorite 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 supprest, 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
