But who the treasures e’er could tell, Disposed within the rich _corbeille_? Embroidered kerchiefs white and fine, Their lace had made Arachne pine, Or, desperate grown in weaver’s pride, Resolve on doleful suicide! And veils were there, in which the bride Might her too-glowing blushes hide; With scarfs and lappets, ruffles, frills, A mine ’twould take to pay their bills! And _Point d’Alençon_, too, was there; And Mechlin, that made ladies stare; With Valenciennes so very fine— They said, for trimming ’twas divine. French gloves in _sachets_, whose perfume Lends fragrance to the dressing-room; With artificial flowers by Nardin, Vieing with those that grow in garden; Fans, smelling-bottles, _casolets_, The gazers called them, “perfect pets!” Enriched with gems of every dye Golconda’s glittering mines supply; Purses, and _reticules_ most rare, Her gold and handkerchief to bear:— No wonder that the spinsters sighed, When such a store as this they eyed! All done—all ready—nought remains For Mary now, save Hymen’s chains, Or garlands rather; if by Love They’re forged, they ne’er can galling prove: No hapless captive sure is she, Who dreads even dreams which set her free. And yet, when nothing now remains Save to put on those rosy chains, To leave a father—O! how dear! To feel a mother’s falling tear, When, strained to her o’erflowing heart, She finds ’tis very hard to part! For one brief instant, tearful, fond, She does not view the home beyond, But trembles as her feet press on Towards that strange solemn Rubicon! Then rise most tender thoughts of youth Th’ unsleeping love, th’ unshaken truth, In those so honoured and so loved, } So often tried, so largely proved, } Till all the daughter’s heart is moved! } [Illustration: _The Bride_ _AND NOW IN SPOTLESS GARB ARRAYED, WAS NEVER SEEN A FAIRER MAID._ ] Yes, even for a husband’s arms, And his ancestral home, whose charms, Painted by him—she longed to see, O! bitter must such partings be! But soon ’tis promised they shall meet, And Deloraine whispers, ’twill be sweet To welcome to _her_ stately home Those much-loved parents when they come. Gently he dries her gushing tears, And feels how much such grief endears; And soon her sadness can beguile, Until there dawns a happier smile Round her fresh lips: to add the grace Of gladness to her pensive face, He tells her, ere the autumn fades, He’ll lead her to her native shades, Make friends with every field and tree, By her beloved since infancy! Soothed by his words, and calmer grown, At last the bridal hour comes on.