THE BRIDAL DAY.

MRS, HEMANS.

We bear her home! we bear her home!
Over the murmuring salt-sea's foam ;
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow-pains and the fever-strife.
Barry Cornwall.

BRIDE! upon thy marriage day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair
'Midst thy braids of sunny hair;
And the white veil o'er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellow'd all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath,
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flow'd that crimson from th' unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?

--

-Who shall tell us?-from thy bower Brightly didst thou pass that hour; With the many-glancing oar, And the cheer along the shore, And the wealth of summer-flowers On thy fair head cast in showers,

K

And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion's glad salute,

Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide

Wert thou borne in pomp, young Bride!

Mirth and music, sun and sky,

Welcomed thee triumphantly!

-Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears,
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!

Bright one! oh, there well may be
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee!

Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
'Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warlike ancestry,

'Midst thy mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wert led
When before the shrine thy form
Quivered to some bosom-storm;
When, like harp-strings with a sigh,
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with Love's unfinished vow,
When, like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red;

And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sank heavily;
Was that drooping but th' excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's miglut,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest shower
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?
-Who shall tell us?-on thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!

Never to thy lip and cheek

Rush'd again the crimson streak,

Never to thine eye return'd

That which there have beam'd and burn'd

With the secret none might know,

With thy rapture or thy woe,

With thy marriage robe and wreath,

Thou wert fled-Young Bride of Death! One, one lightning-moment there, Struck down Triumph to Despair, Beauty, Splendour, Hope, and Trust, Into Darkness, Terror-Dust!

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail
-Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell,

2

"From the power of chill and change, Souls to sever and estrange;

From Love's wane-a death in life,
But to watch a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers, known

To the burden'd heart alone;
Thou art fled-afar-away,

Where those blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh, there well may be

Comfort 'midst our tears for thee!"

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BYRON.

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;

And, like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me,
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming;

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep!-
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee,

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

I DO NOT LOVE THEE.

MISS SHERIDAN.

I Do not love thee!-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad;

And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!-yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to meAnd often in my solitude I sigh

That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee !-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blueBetween me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee !-yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;

And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.