Poems (Chitwood)/The Poet's Bridal

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THE POET'S BRIDAL. "He watched her suffering day by day; and when hope was quite dead—that he might make little journeys with her, and minister to her gently, as no one could but one whose light came from her eyes—he married her. While her sun was setting, he placed his hand in hers, that he might go down with her into the night."

Yes, thou art dying in early youth—
I've kept my heart from the fearful truth;
I've hoped and trusted day by day,
Till Hope's dear image paled away;
E'en now the light in thy gentle eyes
Beams soft like a ray from Paradise,
And thy thrilling tone, so low and clear,
Comes like a note from another sphere.

We plighted our faith when life was bright,—
In the golden dawn of youth's fairy light,
We plighted our faith for future years;
It has still lived on through doubts and fears,
Pure as the drops from heavenly springs,
And white as the young dove's shining wings.
True as the pole star's light above
Has been the star of cur constant love.

Ah! gentle one, in a distant land
I sought for wealth on the ocean's strand!
How often thy young face, so sweet and bright,
Came like a dream in the silent night!
How oft, in fancy, I heard thy tone
Speaking fond words as I sat alone:
And sweet Hope dried the falling tears,
Whispering softly of future years!

The dream is over,—yet let me go,
Down where the darksome waters flow;
I would shield thy form and clasp thy hand,
E'en to the shores of the better land:
I would watch thee till the waters cease,
And harp-strings thrill from the shores of peace;
I would be near when the last soft breath
Melts from thy lips at the kiss of death.

My sad heart aches,—'tis a bitter cup,
E'en to the blest, to give thee up!
But, dearest, if thou indeed must die,
Oh! bind our hearts with a holy tie.
And now, on the last dark sands of life,
Before we part, let me call thee wife.
'Tis a sweet request, thou wouldst not be
So utterly lost, e'en here, to me.

A sad, sad bridal, yet full of bliss:
I had not thought of an hour like this;
I had not thought of a dying bride,
Like a white rose, drooping by my side!
Never, oh, never! the holy vow
Trembled on lips so pure as now;
Never was plighted a truer heart,—
And art thou going?—and must we part?

Oft have I dreamed of quiet bliss,
Of happy homes in a world like this—
Of a humble home where I might hear
Thy gentle voice in its music clear.
Oh! to have thee near me day by day,
With thy constant love: it would well repay
The years of gloom and the ache of heart,
When fate, with a stern voice, bade us part.

Yet go, my love, to a fairer home,
Where never a note of woe can come:
Sorrow and death are the guests of earth,
And cast a pall o'er the brightest heart
Yes, there, oh! there, I will meet thee there,
After a few hours of gloom and care!
Farewell, sweet wife! life's shreds are riven
My heart goes with thee up to heaven!