THE BRIDAL-DAY.
[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.]
“We bear her home! we bear her home!
Over the murmuring salt sea’s foam;
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife.”
Barry Cornwall.
Bride! upon thy marriage-day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair
Midst thy braids of sunny hair,
And the white veil o’er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellow’d all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O’er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flow’d that crimson from th’ unrest
Or the gladness of thy breast?
—Who shall tell us? From thy bower,
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion’s glad salute,
Swiftly o’er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride!
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcomed thee triumphantly!
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment—
“From the home of childhood’s glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Trembling midst our joy for thee!”
Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver’d to some bosom-storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love’s unfinish’d vow;
When, like scatter’d rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sunk heavily;
Was that drooping but th’ excess
Of thy spirit’s blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling’s might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower
Earthward bear thy life’s young flower?
—Who shall tell us? On thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rush’d again the crimson streak;
Never to thine eye return’d
That which there had beam’d and burn’d!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy woe,
With thy marriage robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair;
Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust,
Into darkness—terror—dust!
There were sounds of weeping o’er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern, sad knell
On the air’s bright stillness fell—
“From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love’s wane—a death in life,
But to watch—a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled—afar, away—
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Comfort midst our tears for thee!”