They are coming from the castle, A bevy of bright-eyed girls, Some with their long locks braided, Some with loose golden curls. Merrily 'mid the meadows They win their wilful way; Winding through sun and shadow, Rivulets at play. Brows with white rosebuds blowing, Necks with white pearl entwined. Gowns whose white folds imprison Wafts of the wandering wind. The boughs of the charmèd woodland Sing to the vision sweet. The daisies that crouch in the clover Nod to their twinkling feet. They see Christine by the river, And, deeming the bridegroom near, They wave her a dewy rose-wreath Fresh plucked for her dark brown hair. Hand in hand tripping to meet her, Birdlike they carol their joy. Wedding soft Provençal numbers To a dulcet old strain of Savoy. {181} THE GREETING. Sister, standing at Love's golden gate. Life's second door-- Fleet the maidentime is flying. Friendship fast in love is dying, Bridal fate doth separate Friends evermore. Pilgrim seeking with thy sandalled feet The land of bliss; Sire and sister tearless leaving, To thy beckoning palmer cleaving-- Truant sweet, once more repeat Our parting kiss. Wanderer filling for enchanted isle Thy dimpling sail; Whither drifted, all uncaring. So with faithful helmsman faring, Stay and smile with us, awhile, Before the gale. Playmate, hark! for all that once was ours Soon rings the knell: Glade and thicket, glen and heather, Whisper sacredly together; Queen of ours, the very flowers Sigh forth farewell. Christine looked up, and smiling stood Among the choral sisterhood: But some who sprang to greet her, stayed Tiptoe, with the speech unsaid; And, each the other, none knew why. Questioned with quick, wondering eye. One by one, their smiles have flown. No lip is laughing but her own; And hers, the frozen smile that wears The glittering of unshed tears. "Ye nave sung for me, I will sing for ye, My sisters fond and fair." And she bent her head till the chaplet fell Adown in the deep Isère. THE REPLY. Bring me no rose-wreath now: But come when sunset's first tears fall. When night-birds from the mountain call-- Then bind my brow, Roses and lilies white-- But tarry till the glow-worms trail Their gold-work o'er the spangled veil Of falling night {182} Twine not your garland fair Till I have fallen fast asleep; Then to my silent pillow creep And leave it there-- There in the chapel yard!-- Come with twilight's earliest hush, Just as day's last purple flush Forsakes the sward. Stop where the white cross stands. You'll find me in my wedding suit, Lying motionless and mute, With folded hands.