shade;
            By the hedges,
            Or the edges
      Of some stream or grassy glade,
They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid.

      Other guests, too, are invited,
      From the alleys dimly lighted,
      From the pestilential vapours
        Of the over-peopled town--
      From the fever and the panic,
      Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic--
      Comes the young wife pallor-stricken
      At the cares that round her thicken--
      Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled,
        Ere his chin is clothed in down--
      And the foolish pleasure-seekers,
            Nightly thinking
            They are drinking
      Life and joy from poisoned beakers,
      Shudder at their midnight madness,
      And the raving revel scorn:
            All are treading
            To the wedding
      In the freshness of the morn,
And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born.

      And the Student leaves his poring,
      And his venturous exploring
      In the gold and gem-enfolding
        Waters of the ancient lore--
      Seeking in its buried treasures,
      Means for life's most common pleasures;
      Neither vicious nor ambitious--
      Simple wants and simple wishes.
      Ah! he finds the ancient learning
        But the Spartan's iron ore;
      Without value in an era
            Far more golden
            Than the olden--
      When the beautiful chimera,
      Love, hath almost wholly faded
      Even from the dreams of men.
            From his prison
            Newly risen--
      From his book-enchanted den--
The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again.

      And the Artist, too--the Gifted--
      He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted.
      Till it drinketh inspiration
        At the fountain of the skies;
      He, within whose fond embraces
      Start to life the marble graces;
      Or, with God-like power presiding,
      With the potent pencil gliding,
      O'er the void chaotic canvas
        Bids the fair creations rise!
      And the quickened mass obeying
            Heaves its mountains;
            From its fountains
      Sends the gentle streams a-straying
      Through the vales, like Love's first feelings
      Stealing o'er a maiden's heart;
            The Creator--
            Imitator--
      From his easel forth doth start,
And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art!

      But who is this with tresses flowing,
      Flashing eyes and forehead glowing,
      From whose lips the thunder-music
        Pealeth o'er the listening lands?
      'Tis the first and last of preachers--
      First and last of priestly teachers;
      First and last of those appointed
      In the ranks of the anointed;
      With their songs like swords to sever
        Tyranny and Falsehood's bands!
      'Tis the Poet--sum and total
            Of the others,
            With his brothers,
      In his rich robes sacerdotal,
      Singing with his golden psalter.
      Comes he now to wed the twain--
            Truth and Beauty--
            Rest and Duty--
      Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain,
Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain!

      And the shapes that follow after,
      Some in tears and some in laughter,
      Are they not the fairy phantoms
        In his glorious vision seen?
      Nymphs from shady forests wending,
      Goddesses from heaven descending;
      Three of Jove's divinest daughters,
      Nine from Aganippe's waters;
      And the passion-immolated,
        Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen,
      Various shapes of one idea,
            Memory-haunting,
            Heart-enchanting,
      Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14]
      Rosalind and all her sisters,
      Born by Avon's sacred stream,
            All the blooming
            Shapes, illuming
      The Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15]
Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam.

      But the Bride--the Bride is coming!
      Birds are singing, bees are humming;
      Silent lakes amid the mountains
        Look but cannot speak their mirth;
      Streams go bounding in their gladness,
      With a bacchanalian madness;
      Trees bow down their heads in wonder,
      Clouds of purple part asunder,
      As the Maiden of the Morning
        Leads the blushing Bride to Earth!
      Bright as are the planets seven--
            With her glances
            She advances,
      For her azure eyes are Heaven!
      And her robes are sunbeams woven,
      And her beauteous bridesmaids are
            Hopes and wishes--
            Dreams delicious--
      Joys from some serener star,
And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar.

      Now the mystic right is over--
      Blessings on the loved and lover!
      Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals,
        Let the notes of joy resound!
      With the rosy apple-blossom,
      Blushing like a maiden's bosom;
      With all treasures from the meadows
        Strew the consecrated ground;
      Let the guests with vows fraternal
            Pledge each other,
            Sister, brother,
      With the wine of Hope--the vernal
      Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart:
            Perseverance
            And Forbearance,
      Love and Labour, Song and Art,
Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start.

      But whither the twain departed?
      The United--the One-hearted--
      Whither from the bridal banquet
        Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown?
      Ah! their steps have led them quickly
      Where the young leaves cluster thickly;
      Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them,
      Greener grows the grass before them,
      As they wander through the island,
        Fond, delighted, and alone!
      At their coming streams grow brighter,
            Skies grow clearer,
            Mountains nearer,
      And the blue waves dancing lighter
      From the far-off mighty ocean
      Frolic on the glistening sand;
            Jubilations,
            Gratulations,
      Breathe around, as hand-in-hand
They roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand.

¹⁴ Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore.

¹⁵ "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
      Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent,
      An early but enduring monument."
      Byron.      (Shelley's "Adonais.")