--When he left, 'twas with the assurance The next visit should be final. Marking on his silver tablet With gay hand, the day appointed When he might return to claim her In the nuptial celebration. * * * * * There's a bridal in the spring-time, When the bee from wintry covert Talking to the unsheath'd blossoms, Meditates unbounded plunder, And the bird mid woven branches Brooding o'er her future treasures Harkeneth thrilling to the love-song Of her mate, who nestward tendeth. --There's a bridal in the spring-time, And the beautiful Miranda Through her veil of silvery tissue Gleams, more beautiful than ever. From the hearth-stone of her fathers, With the deathless love of woman Trusting all for earth or heaven To a mortal's rule and guidance, One, but short time since, a stranger, Forth she goes. The young beholders Gazing on the handsome bridegroom, Gazing on the nuptial carriage, Where the milk-white horses sported Knots of evergreen and myrtle, Felt a pleasure mix'd with envy At a happiness so perfect. --But more thoughtful ones, instructed By the change of time and sorrow, By the cloud and by the sunbeam, Felt the hazard that attended Such intrustment without limit, Vows that none had right to cancel Save the hand of Death's dark Angel. * * * * * Of the sadness left behind her In the mansion whence she parted, Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache, Deep, unutter'd apprehension, Fearful looking for of judgment, It were vain in lays so feeble To attempt a true recital. --Still, to Mother and to Sister Came epistles from Miranda, Essenc'd and genteelly written, Painting happiness so perfect, So transcending expectation, So surpassing all that fancy In her wildest flights had pencil'd, That even Eden ere the tempter Coil'd himself amid the blossoms Fail'd to furnish fitting symbol. * * * * * Heartfelt bliss is never boastful, Like the holy dew it stealeth To the bosom of the violet, Only told by deeper fragrance. --He who saith "See! see! I'm happy? Happier than all else around me," Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind him Whether he hath comprehended What true happiness implieth. * * * * * Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest! Oh, the dreary night of winter! Drifting snows, and winds careering Down the tall, wide-throated chimney, Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades. Shrieking ghosts of buried legions. --"Mother! hear I not the wailing Of a human voice?" "My daughter! 'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees. The old sentry-Oak is broken, Close beside our chamber-window, And its branches all are moaning. 'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter." * * * * *