When they arrived at the house, they were of course warmly welcomed. The morrow was appointed for the wedding, and, as many relatives had been invited from distant parts, great preparations were making for their accommodation. Eliza seized the opportunity of stealing away, unobserved, once more to visit her chosen walks and favourite seats, and to bid adieu to the scenes where she had spent the blissful days of youth. When she returned, she retired to her room, and having thrown off her bonnet and gloves, she pondered on the circumstances of her present situation. She was about to leave a peaceful home, tender parents, and affectionate friends; but to-morrow she would be a bride: she would gain one who was more to her than all these, who would cherish and protect her; and the tear that trickled adown her cheek, was gilded by the beam of a pure and subdued love. Then, turning her thoughts to Him who made, and had preserved her, she uttered a sincere and fervent prayer for his continued mercy and protection. Never, perhaps, was the old meeting-house so filled as on the morning of the marriage. Besides the procession of friends and relatives from the house, the neighbours had gathered from far and near to witness the nuptial ceremony of one who was universally respected and beloved: and though there were none of those signs of outward show by which such occasions are commonly distinguished, though there was no firing of cannon, no ringing of bells, no flying of flags, yet it was not less a union of two faithful hearts, nor did their vow of "affection until death" sound less solemnly and impressively on the ears of the hushed assembly. O not in the halls of the noble and proud, Where fashion assembles her glittering crowd, Where all is in beauty and splendour array'd, Were the nuptials perform'd of the meek Quaker maid. Nor yet in the temple those rites which she took, By the altar, the mitre-crown'd bishop, and book: Where oft in bright jewels doth stand the fair bride, To whisper those vows which through life shall abide. The building was humble yet sacred to Him, Before whom the pomp of religion is dim; Whose presence is not to the temple confin'd, But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind. 'Twas there, all unveil'd, save by modesty stood The Quakeress Bride, in her pure satin hood, Her charms unadorn'd by the garland or gem, Yet fair as the lily just plucked from the stem. A tear glisten'd bright in her dark shaded eye, And her bosom half utter'd a tremulous sigh, As the hand she had pledged was confidingly given, And the low murmured accents recorded in heaven. I've been at the bridal where wealth spread the board, Where the sparkling red wine in rich goblets was pour'd: Where the priest in his surplice from ritual read, And the solemn response was impressively said.