the bride, on the way to the bridegroom's house. In a free translation it runs something like this : "Her eyelids are not stained with blue, 'Her red cheeks are her own; Her hair hangs waving as it grew, Her grace were wealth, alone!" for a 2. In the house of the bridegroom's father, which was, time, the home of the young couple, things went merrily, for a feast was provided, to which all the friends and neighbours were invited. It was an essential part of the ceremony, for even so early as Jacob's day, "to make a feast" had become the common expression for the celebration of a marriage. 3. The bride did not sit at this feast, however, but remained apart, among the women, shrouded in the long white veil of betrothal; unseen, as yet, even by her husband. Nor did she take any part in the festivities, or appear at all. It was only when husband and wife were finally alone, that the veil was, for the first time, removed. 4. Meanwhile, the family rejoicings went on apace. The feast was provided at the cost of the bridegroom, and continued, usually, for seven days, with the greatest mirth. The bridegroom wore a crown, often of flowers-the crown with which, in the Song of Solomon, it is said, "his mother crowned him in the day of his espousals, in the day of the gladness of his heart,”—and sat “decked, like a priest, in his ornaments;" the bride sitting apart among the women, adorned with her jewels." Singing, music, and dancing, merry riddles," and the play of wit amused the house, night after night, while the feast was prolonged, and it was only after it had worn itself out, that life settled down again into colourless monotony. 66 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. -THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD, an English poet of exquisite humour and pathos, was born in London in 1799. After a good middle-class education, he was apprenticed as an engraver, bu in 1821, began a literary life as Sub-Editor of the "London Magazine." From this time he devoted himself to the pen. His poems are marked by very opposite qualities; some abounding in wit and humour; others arresting by their deep and tender pathos. His "Song of the Shirt," and "Bridge of Sighs," are examples of his more tender strain. He wrote a number of novels, but they are mostly forgotten. After a life of feeble health, he died in 1845, and was buried in Kensal Green. ONE more Unfortunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Drips from her clothing; Touch her not scornfully; Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family, Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses, Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Home she had none! Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed; Seeming estranged. When the lamps quiver With many a light She stood, with amazement, The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch Or the black flowing river. Mad from life's history, Swift to be hurl'd: In she plunged boldly, The rough river ran; Lave in it-drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Ere her limbs frigidly Decently, kindly Smooth and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Bold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Cross her hands humbly, Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, import'unate, eager. cer'ements, cloths dipped in melted wax, in SPELL AND PRONOUNCE which the mummies of scrutiny, a close inquiry. con'tumely, contempt. |