These are thy bridal flowers
I am now wreathing;
This is thy marriage hymn
I am now breathing.
Some one has been changing
The fresh buds I gathered;
This is not my wreath,
Look how 'tis withered!
And then she threw the flowers aside, and turned
An earnest gaze on heaven; then sang again.
I love thee, oh! thou bright star,
Now looking in light from afar.
Am I not thy own love? I see
Thy answer shine down upon me.
I love thee, thou glorious king,
Look on the fair offering I bring.
There the summer rose blooms in its pride;
Is it not a fit crown for thy bride?
Oh! when will that time of joy be
When my spirit shall mingle with Thee!
Some day I shall seek thy bright shrine,
And be to eternity thine.—
They told me of her history; her love
Was a neglected flame which had consumed
The vase wherein it kindled; Oh, how fraught
With bitterness is unrequited love!
To know that we have cast life's hope away
On a vain shadow. Her's was gentle passion,
Quiet and deep, as woman's love should be,
All tenderness and silence, only known
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye,
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts:
A sigh scarce heard, a blush scarce visible,
Alone may give it utterance. Love is
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
When felt as only woman love can feel;
Pure as the snowfall, when its latest shower
Sinks on spring flowers; deep as a cave-locked fountain,
And changeless as the cypress's green leaves,
For, like them sad, she nourished
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
A passion unconfessed, till He she loved
Was wedded with another; then she grew
Moody and melancholy. One alone
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
Her gentle sister, but that sister died,
And the unhappy girl was left alone—
A Maniac. She would wander far, and shunn'd
Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
Was that dead sister's grave, and that to her
Was as a home. L. E. L.
