Along they go, o'er sparkling snow,
Shrill bells to song oft ringing;
By oak and birch, to Gladstone church
A bridal party bringing.
On time-worn walls the moonbeam falls,
And silvers o'er the spire,
While diamond-pane and giddy vane
Repeat the heavenly fire.
From lofty tower to maiden's bower,
And wide o'er hill and dell,
Of earthly heaven, to mortals given,
Sweet chimes the marriage-bell.
With open book, and solemn look,
All robed in priestly lawn,
The Rector stands,—but counts the sands,
Right willing to be gone!
(The evening mail and nut-brown ale,
His pipe and rocking-chair,
Are waiting long, while the bridal throng
Still lingers unaware.)
An ancient gloom fills all the room,
And dims the lamps above,
Though wall and aisle in verdure smile,
Through wreath and Christmas grove.
By branching pines and graceful vines,
Slow glides the youthful pair
To the altar green, with brow serene,
And kneel together there.
Soft breathes the vow, responsive now,
In calm but earnest tone.
The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing!
Fast binds the twain in one.
The solemn word no longer heard,
With chastened steps and slow,
And heart in heart, no more to part,
To "Home, sweet Home," they go.
Fresh now, again, o'er snowy main,
The winged steeds return:
On roughening rock, with shriek and shock,
The flashing runners burn.