I speak from memory of days long past; Though 'tis a father's tale, I've done at last. * * * * * Here rest thee, rest thee, Muse, review the scene Where thou with me from peep of dawn hast been: We did not promise that this motley throng Should every _one_ supply a votive song; Nor every tenant:--yet thou hast been kind, For untold tales must still remain behind, Which might o'er listening patience still prevail. Did fancy waver not, nor daylight fail. "The Soldier's Wife," her toils, his battles o'er, "Love in a Shower," the riv'let's sudden roar; Then, "Lines to Aggravation" form the close, Parent of murders, and the worst of woes. But while the changeful hours of daylight flew, Some homeward look'd, and talk'd of evening dew; Some watch'd the sun's decline, and stroll'd around, Some wish'd another dance, and partners found; When in an instant every eye was drawn To one bright object on the upper lawn; A fair procession from the mansion came, Unknown its purport, and unknown its aim. No gazer could refrain, no tongue could cease, It seem'd an embassy of love and peace. Nearer and nearer still approach'd the train, Age in the van transform'd to youth again. Sir Ambrose gazed, and scarce believed his eyes; 'Twas magic, memory, love, and blank surprise, For there his venerable lady wore The very dress which, sixty years before, Had sparkled on her sunshine bridal morn, Had sparkled, ay, beneath this very thorn! Her hair was snowy white, o'er which was seen, Emblem of what her bridal cheeks had been, A twin red rose--no other ornament Had pride suggested, or false feeling lent; She came to grace the triumph of her lord, And pay him honours at his festive board. Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she stepp'd; White were their virgin robes, that lightly swept The downy grass; in every laughing eye Cupid had skulk'd, and written "victory." What heart on earth its homage could refuse? Each tripp'd, unconsciously, a blushing Muse. A slender chaplet of fresh blossoms bound Their clustering ringlets in a magic round. And, as they slowly moved across the green, Each in her beauty seem'd a May-day queen. The first a wreath bore in her outstretch'd hand, The rest a single rose upon a wand; Their steps were measured to that grassy throne Where, watching them, Sir Ambrose sat alone. They stopp'd,--when she, the foremost of the row, Curtsied, and placed the wreath upon his brow; The rest, in order pacing by his bower, In the loop'd wreath left each her single flower,-- Then stood aside.--What broke the scene's repose? The whole assembly clapp'd their hands and rose. The Muses charm'd them as they form'd a ring, And look'd the very life and soul of Spring! But still the white hair'd dame they view'd with pride, Her love so perfect, and her truth so tried. Oh, sweet it is to hear, to see, to name, Unquench'd affection in the palsied frame-- To think upon the boundless raptures past, And love, triumphant, conquering to the last!