But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, Oh, beautiful Maud, you’ll never miss The kisses another hath won! AFTER THE WEDDING. All alone in my room, at last; I wonder how far they have travelled now? They’ll be very far when the night is past; And so would I, if I knew but how. How lovely she looked in her wreath and dress! She is queenlier far than the village girls; Those were roses, too, in the wreath, I guess— ’Twas they made the crimson amongst her curls. She’s good as beautiful, too, they say; Her heart is as gentle as any dove’s; She’ll be all that she can to him alway— Dear! I am tearing my new white gloves. How calm she is, with her saint-like face! Her eyes are violet—mine are blue; How careless I am with my mother’s lace!— Her hands are whiter, and softer, too. They’ve gone to the city beyond the hill, They must never come back to this place again! I’m almost afraid to be here so still; I wish it would thunder! and lighten! and rain! Oh, no! for some may not be abed, Some few, perhaps, may be out to-night; I hope that the moon will come instead, And heaven be starry, and earth all light. ’Tis only a summer that she’s been here— It’s been my home for seventeen years!— But her name is a testament far and near, And the poor have embalmed it in priceless tears. I remember the day when another came— There! at last, I have tied my hair— Her curls and mine were nearly the same, But hers are longer, and mine less fair. They’re going across the sea, I know, Across the ocean—will that be far?— Did I have my comb a moment ago? I seem to forget where my things all are. When ships are wrecked, do the people drown? Is there never a boat to save the crew? Poor ships! If ever my ship goes down, I’ll want a grave in the ocean, too. Good-night, good-night—it is striking one!— Good-night to bride, and good-night to groom. The light of my candle is almost done— I wish my bed was in mother’s room! How calm it looks in the midnight shade— Those curtains were hung there clean to-day: They’re all too white for me, I’m afraid: Perhaps I may soon be as white as they. Dark!—all dark!—for the light is dead. Father in heaven, may I have rest? One hour of sleep for my weary head— For this breaking heart in my poor, poor breast! For his sweet sake do I kneel and pray, O God! protect him from change and ill; And render her worthier every way, The older the purer, the lovelier still. There! I knew I was going to cry;— I have kept the tears in my soul too long: Oh! let me say it, or I shall die,— As heaven is witness, I mean no wrong. He never shall hear from this secret room, He never shall know in the after-years, How seventeen summers of happy bloom Fell dead, one night, in a moment of tears!