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All night to rope and spar
They clung with strength untired,
Till the dark clouds fled before the sun,
And the fierce storm expired.

At noon the song of bridal bells
O’er hill and valley ran;
At eve he called the maiden his,
“Before the holy man.”

They dwelt beside the waters
That bathe yon fallen pine,
And round them grew their sons and daughters,
Like wild-grapes on the vine.

And years and years flew o’er them,
Like birds with beauty on their wings,
And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters,
And long and lovely springs—

Such joys as thrilled the lips that kissed
The wave, rock-cooled, from Horeb’s fountains,
And sorrows, fleeting as the mist
Of morning, spread upon the mountains,

Till, in a good old age,
Their life-breath passed away;
Their name is on the churchyard page—
Their story in my lay.

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