Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide, Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride, And mirth and music chid the hours Lost in a maze of thornless flowers. His eye erect in manly pride, Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride, Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough Hung on a false and perjured vow. The holy priest in scarf and bands With holy words had joined their hands, And as to make more strong an oath, When each had pledged their plighted troth, A gleaming ring in diamonds set, That hid a lock of glossy jet, The fragile finger graceful pressed, As sunlight lies on ocean's crest. A maddened brain, a spirit strong, Has pressed aside that startled throng. With glaring eyes and purple cheeks, Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks, While o'er her half-ethereal frame The altar sheds its holy flame. The grasp on Moreland's arm was light, But those wild eyes, so wildly bright, His craven soul with terror fill, For now he knows crazed Alice Hill. A ring she from her finger drew, And held it forth to Moreland's view, And murmured low, in tones that thrilled His thickly throbbing pulse, and stilled The awe-struck guests, as if a breath Had touched them from the wing of death: "Four times twelve months have quickly fled-- This be the seal by which we wed, And in this light empyreal bow, To consecrate, our bridal vow! I sit beneath the elm alone Since thou, my own, my love, art gone. Where hast thou trifled on the way, Like truant-boy forbid to stay? But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide: Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride! My beating heart, what raptures thrill, Tumultuous heart, be still! be still!" A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill, Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill, Out from the door was rudely cast, Though storms were out and tide and blast. There shivering on the pavement cold Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold, Roused by a blow, revenge to claim For reason lost and peace and name. The holy priest completes his task, And bride and groom his blessing ask. What benediction can reverse A wronged and ruined woman's curse? With fettered hands and ringlets shorn, Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne On to the mad-house's gloomy walls, For ever on Fitch Moreland calls,-- "I am not mad! Unloose these bands! See here my tortured, bleeding hands! On Moreland's ring a crimson stain: It shall not plead my wrongs in vain; For in my heart revenge lies deep-- Its glassy eyes shall never sleep, Till at the altar, live or dead, This be the seal by which we wed!"