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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
“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.
“ But now set out: the noon is near,
And I must give away the bride,
She fears not, or with thee beside
"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
® 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
· 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
Which lor and hope reveal.
Years in their silent course have fled
Since in thy youth and bloom,
They laid thee in the tomb;
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,
Of which thou formed a part ?
Though death has robbed the form
In life's bewitching morn?
But though thy tones no more may fall,
Like, music, on my ear,
Forever hold thee dear.
And well recalls the spell
Denies a last farewell.