Part 4
And Roman Ladies, chaste and proud, Were mingled in that motley crowd; And witching gipsies fortunes told, The same one theme, to young and old; And Pilgrims with their cockle-shells; And Folly with his cap and bells; And Comus with his cup divine; And Circe, but without her swine; And she who on the willowy shore[2] } Of Carthage, did her love deplore;— } The Muse lacks breath: she can no more. } Through the vast hall the brilliant crowd Roamed gaily, or to music loud Whirled nimble feet, while some apart, Revealed soft secrets of the heart: Full many a fair and dimpled lisper Lent her white ear to Flattery’s whisper, And though in Love’s experience read, Believed the whole the coxcomb said: ’Twas almost true—if true not quite— And who could doubt on such a night?
Who on this brilliant scene had dwelt, And paused to think, but must have felt As Xerxes, when he wept to see } That mighty, moving throng, whom he } Had marshalled on to destiny, } This crowd of young, and blithe, and fair, Smiled on by Death—but not to spare? To his wan eye, the gilded room Is but a thickly peopled tomb; To him the years are but a day, That pass, and all have gone their way, Or, touched by Time with finger cold, Are frail, and spectral to behold: He laughs at every polished brow, And floating tress, and neck of snow, And cheek that shames the rarest rose, And lips that rows of pearl disclose; And forms from Beauty’s faultless mould, So softly fair or proudly bold, That seraphs, from their amaranth bowers, Might envy shapes this earth of ours Yields from its dust;—and while he quaffs His wine of tears, the Spoiler laughs, Too soon that shadowy wand to wave, Which sweeps the revellers to the grave! But O! how few e’er pause to think, While Pleasure’s cup, filled to the brink, Lures them to taste—and idly gay, Their brief existence sport away; Until, perchance, some dear one dies, Then falls the bandage from their eyes That hid the dread truth from their gaze, And, terror-struck, in wild amaze They learn that nought of man’s endeavour Can change the doom—“Ye part for ever!” For ever?—No—in realms on high, If the heart’s instinct prove no lie ... But pause—nor trench on themes divine, Unmeet for such light lay as mine.
[Illustration:
_The Declaration_
_MARK YONDER YOUTH ON WHOSE FOND ARM LEANS ONE ENRICHED WITH EVERY CHARM_ ]
Mark yonder youth, on whose fond arm Leans one enriched with every charm That ever-bounteous Nature spent, When on some loving labour bent! How fresh, how young, how fair the face! That form, how round, how full of grace! That foot, how fairy-like and small! It might on bed of roses fall, And scarce a delicate leaflet crush, Nor by its pressure stain the blush: A sable robe, in graceful folds, Sweeps to her feet—a cestus holds Her slender waist, with many a gem Brilliant; so shines the diadem That crowns her brow, as marble pale, Whence low descends a dusky veil Round her sweet face in shadowy flow, Like clouds that float o’er Dian’s brow; Now her rare splendour half concealing, Now, touched by air, the whole revealing— “She walks in beauty,” Queen of Night, Did e’er the Goddess look more bright? Large diamonds, of the purest lustre, Within her raven tresses cluster, Which darker seem between the rays Emitted by their dazzling blaze: So show the heavens when stars abound, And shed their sparkling gleams around. Her veiled arms (might Fancy say) Remind us of the milky way, When in the winter’s midnight sky Its lone, long path, streams pale on high. All eyes are on her, but her own Are veiled, as though the lids had grown Jealous of those bright orbs they shade, And to reveal them half afraid. Why wears her cheek a brighter hue, Than Cashmere’s gardens ever knew? Why throbs that fair and gentle breast So wildly ’gainst her starry vest? Would she abashed those gazers shun? She hears—she sees—she feels but one!
At last, the chosen at her side Hath asked her to become his Bride; Hath told not half the manly love Which all his future life shall prove; And every tender, timid word, Her ears hath drank—her heart has heard: Yet maiden shame would half repress } The words her blushing cheeks confess, } Fond thoughts she dares not all express. } “Look up, mine own! a word—a sign— To tell me you are ever mine; Nay, are you pained, that thus you sigh, And listen with averted eye?— Say—may I hope?”—O! who can tell The rapture on his soul which fell, When those twin faltering lips betrayed The “Yes,” of that dear conscious maid? Scarcely his joy he can dissemble, The while he felt her round arm tremble Within his own, as to his breast, Gently, but lovingly, ’twas pressed. And she—O! who could e’er disclose The deep, tumultuous bliss she knows? She longs to be alone, to weep The tears she scarce concealed can keep. Now, bolder grown, the ardent youth Repeats his vows of faith and truth, ’Till, all disclosed, the maid may own The secret by her blushes shewn. At last—for Time, who jealous hovers O’er mortal raptures, spares not lovers— He leads her to her mother’s chair, And whispers (not to empty air) How high his bliss, how great his pride, To call her angel-daughter bride: Smiling, the lady hears the news, She could not parley or refuse; Yet dignified the gracious mien In which she let assent be seen. ’Twas fixed next morning he should call And tell the good Lord Percy all: No fear of him—he could not say, To Mary and Lord Deloraine, “Nay!” Pass we the interim in our song— O! but the lovers thought it long! ’Twere vain to tell how quickly flew The hours which now the lovers knew, As, ne’er apart, they rode or walked, Or of the golden future talked, For even old age looks passing bright When viewed by Love’s own magic light: Or how the self-same poet’s page Would oft their downcast eyes engage.— The bard who sung the “hell[3] of sueing,” Forgot, methinks, the heaven of wooing!
No Deloraine blamed the law’s delay, And drove to Lincoln’s Inn each day To urge its ministers to speed, Who of impatience took small heed. They wasted weeks, without remorse, Their tedious covenants to endorse; Talked of fee-simple and entail, And due provisions for heirs-male And younger children, and made good Jointure in case of widowhood— Nay, so o’er-provident were they, As with shred counsel long to weigh What sum, in case of separation, Should form the lady’s reparation. The youth to fancy did begin That Time stood still in Lincoln’s Inn; He’d wait no more, but spoke aloud, And, angry with impatience, vowed He’d rather give his whole estate Than for tedious lawyers wait. Cold to his prayers, those parchment men The pin-money must settle then.
But all, at last, was finished well. Now of the thousand gifts to tell When father, mother, loved vied, Which should most enrich the bride! Diamonds, the costliest and the rarest; Pearls of the East, the largest, fairest— How proud had Egypt’s royal Queen, In her triumphant glory, been To drink such ocean-spoils, as now Waited to hang on Mary’s brow!— Rubies, that flashed like the red sun, When earth he latest looks upon; Emeralds, whose deep and lucid green, Would shame the fairies’ turf, I ween; And sapphires, of such hues intense As Midnight’s heaven had dropped them thence; And turquoises of paler hue, Fond Memory’s flower hath such a blue; And opals of such changeful dyes As rainbows shew in Summer skies, Were showered on her, whose beauty rare, Surpassed all gems beyond compare. And now arrived the time to shew Her gorgeous and complete _trousseau_— Crowds flocked to Regent Street each day, Enchanted with rich display Which Howell’s taste and skill provide, To deck this young and peerless bride. And many a maiden’s tempted eye Made her young heart for wedlock sigh. What Cashmere shawls!—why, for one glance, Had crossed the sea the flower of France! Even English dames (the truth to speak) Dreamed of them many an after-week, And raved in ecstasy’s disorder About “that matchless Turkish border!” Robes of each fashion, stuff, and shade, In dazzling number were displayed; With _peignoirs_, white as snows which arch The weeping branches of the larch; _Chapeaux_ and caps outpassing number— Some for the morning, some for slumber; Furs from Siberia—mart Zipline, Nor Czar nor Kaisar e’er had seen Finer; and ermine, soft and white As flakes of snow, ere they alight On earth; and shoes, which Cinderella In her glass shoe had found no fellow; Muslins from Dacca’s cunning looms; Velvets and satins with such blooms, As, shewn in garden-walks, would quite With envy turn the peaches white! And then _such_ hues!—less changeful deck The monarch of the bee-birds’[4] neck; Not Juno, when she dressed a cloud To cheat the vacant youth who bowed To its false charms, chose tints more gay Than, flower-like, in that _trousseau_ lay.
But who the treasures e’er could tell, Disposed within the rich _corbeille_? Embroidered kerchiefs white and fine, Their lace had made Arachne pine, Or, desperate grown in weaver’s pride, Resolve on doleful suicide! And veils were there, in which the bride Might her too-glowing blushes hide; With scarfs and lappets, ruffles, frills, A mine ’twould take to pay their bills! And _Point d’Alençon_, too, was there; And Mechlin, that made ladies stare; With Valenciennes so very fine— They said, for trimming ’twas divine. French gloves in _sachets_, whose perfume Lends fragrance to the dressing-room; With artificial flowers by Nardin, Vieing with those that grow in garden; Fans, smelling-bottles, _casolets_, The gazers called them, “perfect pets!” Enriched with gems of every dye Golconda’s glittering mines supply; Purses, and _reticules_ most rare, Her gold and handkerchief to bear:— No wonder that the spinsters sighed, When such a store as this they eyed! All done—all ready—nought remains For Mary now, save Hymen’s chains, Or garlands rather; if by Love They’re forged, they ne’er can galling prove: No hapless captive sure is she, Who dreads even dreams which set her free. And yet, when nothing now remains Save to put on those rosy chains, To leave a father—O! how dear! To feel a mother’s falling tear, When, strained to her o’erflowing heart, She finds ’tis very hard to part! For one brief instant, tearful, fond, She does not view the home beyond, But trembles as her feet press on Towards that strange solemn Rubicon! Then rise most tender thoughts of youth Th’ unsleeping love, th’ unshaken truth, In those so honoured and so loved, } So often tried, so largely proved, } Till all the daughter’s heart is moved! }
[Illustration:
_The Bride_
_AND NOW IN SPOTLESS GARB ARRAYED, WAS NEVER SEEN A FAIRER MAID._ ]
Yes, even for a husband’s arms, And his ancestral home, whose charms, Painted by him—she longed to see, O! bitter must such partings be! But soon ’tis promised they shall meet, And Deloraine whispers, ’twill be sweet To welcome to _her_ stately home Those much-loved parents when they come. Gently he dries her gushing tears, And feels how much such grief endears; And soon her sadness can beguile, Until there dawns a happier smile Round her fresh lips: to add the grace Of gladness to her pensive face, He tells her, ere the autumn fades, He’ll lead her to her native shades, Make friends with every field and tree, By her beloved since infancy! Soothed by his words, and calmer grown, At last the bridal hour comes on.
And now, in spotless garb arrayed, Was never seen a fairer maid; Her parents gaze with tearful pride, Her lover longs to call her bride; And while the altar she draws nigh, She checks the tear and trembling sigh, And with religious awe doth feel The solemn bond she comes to seal! She utters not, like words of course, The vows that wedlock’s laws enforce; With holy fervour does she speak Each word, and with a spirit meek Resolves their purpose to fulfil, Obedient to the Almighty Will!
The Bishop now the bride has blessed, Her husband now her lips hath pressed; Her friends flock round, and wish the pair May all life’s joys and blessings share: Her mother tries to hide a tear, And still her father hovers near Once more to bless, once more to speak; He can but look—for words are weak,— But a life’s love’s in the embrace, And tears that fall upon her face.
And now, before my story ends, } A sumptuous _déjeûner_ attends } The happy couple and their friends. } ’Tis done: behold approach the door A well-appointed chaise-and-four: More tasteful never left Long Acre. What wonder?—Barker was the maker. The bride, attired in travelling dress, Meets once, once more, the sad caress Of parents, who with breaking heart, Behold their mansion’s flower depart. They’d keep her still.—In vain! for marriage Were nought without its travelling-carriage.
And now my Muse disdains to tune Her tired harp for the honey-moon: The wooing past—the wedding o’er— Paid every fee—what would ye more? True wishes, lovely maids, and kind, That such a lot you each may find; And every Belle have equal reason To bless the closing of the Season!
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY MOYES AND BARCLAY, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
PUBLISHED FOR THE PROPRIETOR, BY LONGMAN, & Cº, PATERNOSTER N. Y.
_AND APPLETON, & Cº NEW YORK_
-----
Footnote 1:
It is a Rabbinical tradition, that one of the questions which the Queen of Sheba submitted for consideration to Solomon the Wise took the form of a couple of wreaths—the one of natural, the other of artificial flowers. The monarch, unable to decide between nature and art, called in the aid of a swarm of bees, which, by settling upon the genuine wreath, saved the King of Judah’s reputation for wisdom.
Footnote 2:
——“On such a night Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand, Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav’d her love To come again to Carthage.”
Footnote 3:
“What hell it is in sueing long to bide!” SPENSER’S “_Mother Hubbard’s Tale_.”
Footnote 4:
The king of the humming-birds—remarkable among that gay tribe for the superior brilliancy of his plumage.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.