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Welcome, all chaste and kind desires,
With even matron pace
Approaching down the hallowed aisle !
Where should ye seek Love's perfect smile,
But where your prayers were learned erewhile,
In her own native place ?
Where, but on His benignest brow,
Who waits to bless you here?
Living, He owned no nuptial vow,
No bower to Fancy dear :
Love's very self—for Him no need
To nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed :
Yet comfort in His eye we read
For bridal joy and fear.
'Tis He who clasps the marriage band,
And fits the spousal ring,
Then leaves ye kneeling, hand in hand,
Out of His stores to bring
His Father's dearest blessing, shed
Of old on Isaac's nuptial bed,
Now on the board before ye spread
Of our all-bounteous King.
All blessings of the breast and womb,
Of Heaven and earth beneath,
Of converse high, and sacred home,
Are yours, in life and death,
Only kneel on, nor turn away
From the pure shrine, where Christ to-day
Will store each flower, ye duteous lay,
For an eternal wreath.
'Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good
report, think on these things.”—Philippians iv. 8.
ACROSS the threshold led,
And every tear kissed off as soon as shed,
His house she enters—there to be a light,
Shining within, when all without is night ;
A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing;
Winning him back, when mingling in the throng,
From a vain world we love, alas, too long,
To fireside happiness, to hours of ease,
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ;
Still subject--ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell ;
And feeling hearts—touch them but rightly-pour
A thousand melodies unheard before !
Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise
E’er to the gate with nymph-like steps she flies,
And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy,
With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy,
To meet him coming ; theirs through every year
Pure transports, such as each to each endear!
And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill
Their home with gladness. She, when all are still,
Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie,
In sleep how beautiful ! He, when the sky
Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony,
When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share
His kisses, and with gentle violence there
Break in upon a dream not half so fair,
Up to the hill-top leads their little feet;
Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet
The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear
The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ;
Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree,
That gave him back his words of pleasantry-
And, as they wander with a keen delight,
If but a leveret catch their quicker sight
Down a green alley, or a squirrel then
Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again,
If but a moth Ait by, an acorn fall,
He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all ;
These with unequal footsteps following fast,
These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last.
The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow,
And the swart seamen, sailing far below,
Not undelighted watch the morning ray
Purpling the orient-till it breaks away
And burns and blazes into glorious day !
But happier still is he who bends to trace
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face ;
The burst, the glow, the animating strife,
The thoughts and passions stirring into life;
The forming utterance, the enquiring glance,
The giant waking from his tenfold trance
Till up he starts as conscious whence he came,
And all is light within the trembling frame !
What then a Father's feelings ? Joy and Fear
In turn prevail, Joy most; and through the year
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way,
Praising each highly-from a wish to raise
Their merits to the level of his praise,
Onward in their observing sight he moves,
Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves !
Their sacred presence who shall dare profa ?
Who, when he slumbers, hope to fix a stain !
He lives a model in his life to show,
That when he dies and through the world they go,
Some men may pause and say, when some admire,
“They are his sons, and worthy of their sire !"
DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride
Be called our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;
And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.