MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB.
No WORD! no sound! But yet a solemn rite
Proceedeth through the festive lighted hall.
Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take
That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death,
With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life.
No word! no sound! But still yon holy man
With strong and graceful gesture doth impose
The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer
Present it to be registered in Heaven.
Methinks this silence heavily doth brood
Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown'd bride,
What means the sigh which from that ruby lip
Doth 'scape, as if to seek some element
Mute! mute! 'tis passing strange!
Like necromancy all. And yet, 'tis well;
For the deep trust, with which a maiden casts
Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven,
Into a mortal's hand, the confidence
With which she turns in every thought to him,
Her more than brother, and her next to God,
Hath never yet been shadowed forth in sound,
Or told in language.
Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm
Your silent altar in each other's hearts,
And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time
As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech
Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell
Where flower fades not, and death no treasured link
Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn
The ear sequestrate, and the tunelcss tongue,
For there the eternal dialect of love
Is the free breath of every happy soul.
Go to thy rest, my child!
Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefiled,
With blessings on thy head;
Fresh roses in thy hand,
Buds on thy pillow laid,
Haste from this fearful land,
Where flowers so quickly fade.
Before thy heart might learn
In waywardness to stray,
Before thy foot could turn
The dark and downward way; Ere sin might wound the breast, Or sorrow wake the tear, Rise to thy home of rest, In yon celestial sphere.
Because thy smile was fair
Thy lip and eye so bright,
Because thy cradle-care
Was such a fond delight,
Shall Love, with weak embrace,
Thy heavenward flight detain? No! Angel, seek thy place
Amid yon cherub-train.
I HAVE crept forth to die among the trees.
They have sweet voices that I love to hear,
Sweet, lute-like voices. They have been as friends
In my adversity-when sick and faint
I stretched me in their shadow all day long,
They were not weary of me. They sent down
Soft summer breezes, fraught with pitying sighs,
To fan my blanching cheek. Their lofty boughs
Pointed with thousand fingers to the sky,
And round their trunks the wild vine fondly clung,
Nursing her clusters; and they did not check
Her clasping tendrils, nor deceive her trust,
Nor blight her blossoms, and go towering up
In their cold stateliness, while on the earth
She sank to die.
But thou, rejoicing bird,
Why pourest thou such a rich and mellow lay
On my dull ear? Poor bird!-I gave thee crumbs, And fed thy nested little ones! so thou
(Unlike to man!) thou dost remember it.
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