All the children of the village, Decked with garlands white and red, All the young men and the maidens Had been up to see her wed; And the aged people, seated In the doorways, ’neath the vine, Thought of their own youth, and blessed her As she left the house divine. Pale she was, but very lovely, With a brow so calm and fair, When she passed the benediction Seemed still falling on the air. Strangers whispered they had never Seen who could with her compare, And the maidens looked with envy On her wealth of raven hair. In the glen beside the river, In the shadow of the wood, With wide open doors for welcome, Gambrel-roofed the cottage stood, Where the festal board was waiting, For the bridal guests prepared, Laden with a feast, the humblest In the little village shared. Every hour was winged with gladness, Whilst the sun went down the west, Till the chiming of the church bell Told to all the hour for rest: Then the merry guests departed— Some a camp’s rude couch to bide; Some to bright homes—each invoking Blessings on the gentle bride. Tranquilly the morning sunbeam Over field and hamlet stole, Wove a glory round each red leaf, And effaced the frost-king’s scroll. Eyes responded to its greeting As a lake’s still waters shine, Young hearts bounded—and a gay group Sought the home of Madeline. Bird-like voices ’neath the casement Chanted through the fragrant air A sweet orison for wakening— Half thanksgiving and half prayer. But no white hand raised the curtain From the vine-clad panes before; No light form with buoyant footstep Hastened to fling wide the door. All was silent in the dwelling— All so silent a chill fear Of some unseen ill crept slowly Through the gay group waiting near. Moments seemed as hours in passing, Till the mild-eyed man drew nigh, Who had blessed the blushing orphan Ere the yester sun was high. He, with glance of dark foreboding, Passed the threshold of the door; Paused not where a crimson torrent Curdled on the oaken floor: But sought out the bridal-chamber— God in Heaven! could it be Madeline who knelt before him In that trance of agony? Cold, inanimate beside her, By the ruthless Cow-boys slain In the night-time whilst defenseless, He—the brave—she loved was lain. O’er her snowy dress were scattered Stains of deep and fearful dye, And the soul’s glance beamed no longer From her tearless, vacant eye. Round her slight form hung the tresses Braided oft with pride and care, Silvered by that night of madness With its anguish and despair.