THE BRIDE.
I CAME, but she was gone.
In her fair home,
There lay her lute, just as she touch 'd it last, At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favourite seat Lay the still open work-box, and that book Which last she read, its pencil'd margin mark'd By an ill-quoted passage trac'd, perchance, With hand unconscious, while her lover spake That dialect which brings forgetfulness Of all beside. It was the cherish 'd home, Where from her childhood, she had been the star Of hope and joy.
I came and she was gone. Yet I had seen her from the altar led, With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, The fresh, young rose-bud, deepening in her cheek, And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought Of one who gives a priceless gift away. And there was silence 'mid the gather 'd throng. The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip
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