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“ But where is she, the bridal flower,

That must be made a wife 'ere noon?

She enters, glowing with the moon
Of Eden on its bridal bower.

“On me she bends her blissful eyes

And then on thee; they meet thy look,

And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise.

“Oh! when her life was yet in bud,

He too foretold the perfect rose.

For thee she grew, for thee she grows, Forever, and is fair as good.

" And thou art worthy, full of power;

As gentle, liberal-minded, great,

Consistent, wearing all that weight Or leaning lightly like a flower.

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“ But now set out: the noon is near,

And I must give away the bride,

She fears not, or with thee beside
And me behind her, will not fear.

"For I that danced her on my knee,

That watched her on her nurse's arm,

That shielded all her life from harm, At last must part with her to thee;

“Now waiting to be made a wife,

Her feet, my darling, on the dead;

Their pensive tablets 'round her head, And the most living words of life

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® Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,

The 'wilt thou' answered, and again

The wilt thou' asked, till out of twain, Her sweet 'I will' has made ye one.

“Now sign your names, which shall be read,

Mute symbols of a joyful morn,

By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are signed and overhead

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· Begins the clash and clang that tells

The joy to every wandering breeze;

The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

“O! happy hour! behold the bride

With him to whom her hand I gave.

They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side.”.

THE RELIC OF HAIR.

This golden link of sunny hair

Is all that's left of one, That, like some bright and shining star,

Around our pathway shone; 'Twas parted from her fair young brow,

Ere death had set his seal
On all the bright and happy flow

Which lor and hope reveal.

Years in their silent course have fled

Since in thy youth and bloom,
With all our love around thee flung,

They laid thee in the tomb;
But still thy laugh trills on my ear,

Thy form goes floating by

As vividly in memory

As when it met my cyc.

Oh golden tress ! that wakes the past,

Too life-like in my heart,
Where are those sister ringlets now,

Of which thou formed a part ?
Time hath not dimmed its lustrous sheen,

Though death has robbed the form
Of all the graces which it wore

In life's bewitching morn?

But though thy tones no more may fall,

Like, music, on my ear,
This golden link shall bid the heart

Forever hold thee dear.
For, oh! it is a part of thee,

And well recalls the spell
Whose vivid power on my heart

Denies a last farewell.

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