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The Bride adhering to those filial cares
Dwelt with her Mate beneath her Father's roof.
Our very first in eminence of years
This old Man stood, the Patriarch of the Vale!
And, to his unmolested mansion, Death
Had never come, through space of forty years;
Sparing both old and young in that Abode.
Suddenly then they disappeared:—not twice
Had summer scorched the fields,—not twice had fallen,
On those high Peaks, the first autumnal snow,—
Before the greedy visiting was closed
And the long-privileged House left empty—swept
As by a plague: yet no rapacious plague
Had been among them; all was gentle death,
One after one, with intervals of peace.
—A happy consummation! an accord
Sweet, perfect,—to be wished for! save that here
Was something which to mortal sense might sound
Like harshness,—that the old grey-headed Sire,
The oldest, he was taken last,—survived
When the meek Partner of his age, his Son,
