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A BRIDAL SONG.
The golden gates of sleep unbar
Where strength and beauty met together, Kindle their image like a star
In a sea of glassy weather.
Darkness, weep thy holiest dew,—
On a pair so true.
Fairies, sprites, and angels keep her!
Holy stars, permit no wrong!
Dawn,—ere it be long.
In the absence of the sun!
There late was One within whose subtle being,
That night the youth and lady mingled lay
In love and sleep—but when the morning came
The lady found her lover dead and cold.
Let none believe that God in mercy gave
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild,
But year by year lived on—in truth I think
J lor gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
And that she did not die, but lived to tend
Her aged father, were a kind of madness,
If madness 'tis to be unlike the world.
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;—
Her eyelashes were worn away with tears,
Her lips aud cheeks were like things dead—so pale;
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins
And weak articulations might be seen
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!
"Inheritor of more than earth can give,
ON A FADED VIOLET.
The odour from the flower is gone, Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
The colour from the flower is flown,
A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm
I weep—my tears revive it not!
I sigh—it breathes no more on me j Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be.
LINES TO A CRITIC.
Honey from silk-worms who can gather, Or silk from the yellow bee?
The grass may grow in winter weather As soon as hate in me.
Hate men who cant, and men who pray,
An equal passion to repay
Or seek some slave of power and gold,
Thy love will move that bigot cold,
A passion like the one I prove
Cannot divided be;
How should I then hate thee?