'Neath the sweet music of the marriage bells;—
Then on those tented hills, and ravag'd dells,
The War of Roses died—no more the ray
Of white or red, the fires of hate ilium'd,
But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloom'd.
xxxviii.
Young wife,—how beautiful the months swept by.
Within thy bower methinks I view thee still,—
The meek observance of thy lifted eye,
Bent on thy lord, and prompt to do his will:
The care for him,—the happiness to see
His soul's full confidence repose in thee,—
The sacrifice of self,—the ready skill
In duty's path,—the love without alloy,—
These gave each circling year a brighter crown of joy.
xxxix.
Out on the waters!—On the deep, deep sea!
Out, out upon the waters! Surging foam,
Swell'd by the winds, rolls round her wild and free,
And memory wandereth to her distant home,
To fragrant gales, the blossom'd boughs that stir,
To the sad sire, who fondly dreams of her;
But kindling smiles recall the thoughts that roam,
For at her side a bright-hair'd nursling plays,
While bends her bosom's lord, with fond, delighted gaze.
