If one shrewd tongue should jar and seek to | While memories of green woods and tuneful shame

streams,

The bride's new honors with her humble Lone songs and autumn sighs and April

Thou in her place wouldst merit thine own In shadows of soft melancholy flow

Long be their days, their fortunes glad and That memory, like the deep light in the

sure!

His blood is noble, and her heart is pure.

Look on her in that aspect ye may spy
Her mirrored soul where all sweet pictures
lie;

west,

Shall bathe your hearts before ye sink to

rest

Not only with the glow of good things gone, But with the faith that when your days be done

Spring, summer, with their changes o'er it Another morn shall rise, but not to set,

flit.

And morn and eve, twin-sisters, look from it;

And

ye shall meet once more as once ye met,

tain-streams,

Your beauty wrought to glory by the Giver, | 'Mid herbless rocks, more pure than moun-
The joy within ye perfected for ever.
Oh what rare thoughts are his! oh what
delight

To gaze upon her, hold her in his sight,
To quaff her smiles as thirsty bees that sup,
Nuzzled within a noonday lily's cup,

The last sweets, lest a drop be there in vain!
And in that rapture all remembered pain
Exhales, and for a moment he can see

A lightning-flash of what the soul shall be.

Chaster than light, warmer than imaged
beams,

More full of promise than the vernal heaven,
More peaceful than a starry summer's even,
More sweet than moss-rose odors after rain
With violets mixed, or a two-voiced strain?

But she-dear heart!-her thoughts are fled To aged eyes than is the hue of wine,

To weary wanderers than the sound and
shine

Of sudden waters in a desert place,
To a sad brother than a sister's face?"
Oh, love, first love, so full of hope and
truth

A guileless maiden and a gentle youth.

Through arches of wreathed rose they take
their way,

He the fresh morning, she the better May,
'Twixt jocund hearts and voices jubilant,
And unseen gods that guard on either
hand,

And blissful tears, and tender smiles that fall
On her dear head, great summer over all,
While Envy, of the triumph half afraid,
Slinks like a dazzled serpent to the shade.

As though the long-lost Golden Age were The minstrels wait them at the palace

She turns away; her eyes are dim with tears; | The naked shape of man there saw I plain, Her mother's blessing lingers in her ears: All save the flesh, the sinew and the vein. "Bless thee, my child!" The music is un

And songs of star-browed seraphim in- Famine and fire he held, and there

From morn till evening's sweeter pastime Nor far some Andalusian saraband

grew,

With timbrel, when beneath the forest brown

Thy lovely maidens would the dance re

new,

And aye those sunny mountains halfway down

town.

Would echo flageolet from some romantic Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochst rolling from the mountainbay,

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,