For Uriel’s sire, forgetting his long ancestral line, Consented that his gentle child should wed the nameless knight: What wonder, then, that Uriel’s eyes resumed their olden light! —The chapel bells were ringing; the priest was in his place, And the incense clomb in clouds from the censers by his side, While the organ’s billowy melodies breathed a welcome to the bride. The princely train came slowly in, for Uriel’s satin feet Fell fainter on the pavement than the snow-flake on the stream, As she walked, in silence, by her groom, like a vision in a dream. But when she reached the altar, grandly, and like a sun, Shone out the marvelous brightness of her supernatural eyes So vividly, the aged priest stepped back in mute surprise! But the groom—his eyes shone brighter still, like lightning in the night. As he motioned to the monk to expedite the rite; But Uriel’s cheek grew pale again, and her eyes became less bright. Slowly the priest proceeded, while the organ’s swan-like song Swept toward the gilded dome and died, and lived and died again, As the monk in mellow monotones chanted his deep refrain. The priest was silent: with a sigh the bride sunk on the breast Of him she loved so wildly, as a bird sinks on its nest, As her sire, her bridemaids and her friends around the couple prest. Suddenly, like an expiring lamp, her large, unusual eyes Flashed, and went out, as forward, with a simple rustling sound, The noble Lady Uriel fell lifeless to the ground! The maidens shrieked in terror when she sunk, as through a mist, For where the bridegroom stood was space—his form was gone in air; And the lonely sire embraced his child in agonies of despair! From his place behind the railing came the shorn and shaven priest, And quoth he, while the expectant crowd stood mute and held their breath— “Take up the dead: _its_ Nameless Groom was the _Invisible_ DEATH.” * * * * * OUT OF DOORS. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ’TIS good to be abroad in the sun, His gifts abide when day is done; Each thing in nature from his cup Gathers a several virtue up; The grace within its being’s reach Becomes the nutriment of each, And the same life imbibed by all Makes each most individual: Here the twig-bending peaches seek The glow that mantles in their cheek— Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom That hazes round the basking plum, And, from the same impartial light, The grass sucks green, the lily white.