Ay, let her soft and thoughtful eyes, upon her mirror dwell,
For, in that long and tender look, she taketh her farewell
Of all her youth's unconsciousness, of all her lighter cares,
And for a deeper, sadder life—a woman's lot, prepares.
She leaves her old familiar place, the hearts that were her own;
The love to which she trusts herself is yet a thing unknown:
Though at one name her cheek turn red, though sweet it be to hear,
Yet for that name she must resign so much that has been dear.
It is an anxious happiness,—it is a fearful thing,
When first the maiden's small white hand puts on the golden ring;
She passeth from her father's house unto another's care;
And who may say what troubled hours, what sorrows wait her there?
Ah! love and life are mysteries, both blessing and both blest;
And yet, how much they teach the heart of trial and unrest!
Sweet maiden, while these troubled thoughts 'mid bridal fancies sweep,
Well mayst thou pensive watch thy glass, and turn aside to weep!
