Cawing crows, instead of rooks.

  Glowed the heavens—rose the sun,
  Mariline was up, for one.

VI.

  Like a chatterer tongue-tied,
  Lo, the wheel is placed aside!—
  Not from indolence or pride—
  Mariline must be a Bride!

  Fairest maid of maids terrene!
  Bride of Brides, dear Mariline!

VII.

  Up the meditative air
  Passed the smoke-wreaths, white and fair,
  Like the spirit of the prayer
  Mariline now offered there:

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  Passed behind the cottage eaves,
  Curling through the maple leaves:

  Through the pines and old elm trees,
  Belies of past centuries,
  Hardy oaks, that never breeze
  Humbled to their gnarly knees:

  Forest lords, beneath whose sheen
  Flowers bloomed for Mariline.

  Round the cottage, fresh and green,
  Climbed the vine, the scarlet bean,
  Morning-glories peeped between,
  Looking out for Mariline.

  Odours never felt before
  Tranced the locust at the door,

  Vieing with the mignonette
  Bound the garden parapet,
  Whose rare fragrances were met
  By rich perfumes, rarer yet,

  Stealing from the garden walks,
  Sentineled with hollyhocks.

VIII.

  What a heaven the cottage seemed!
  Love's own temple, where Faith dreamed
  Of the coming years that beamed
  On them, as pale stars have gleamed

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  Through unnavigated seas,
  To which the prophetic breeze

  Whispered of a future day,
  When swift fleets would urge their way,
  Through the waters cold and gray,
  Like the dolphins at their play.

  There the future Bride, and he,
  Prince of love's knight-errantry,

  Whose good shepherd arms must hold
  This pet yeanling of the fold,
  Gift of God so long foretold,
  Gift beyond the price of gold.

  There the parents, aged and hale,
  Passing down life's autumn vale,

  With a joy as rare and true
  As their daughter's eye of blue,
  With such hopes as reach up to
  Heaven's gate, when, passing through,

  Peris, bound for higher skies,
  Win the Celestial Paradise.

IX.

  Thoughtfully stood Mariline,
  Whitely veiled, and soul-serene;
  Love's fair world for her demesne,
  Never looked she more a queen—

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  With her maidens by her side,
  Smiling on the coming bride.

  Her pet lamb, with comic mirth,
  Licked her hand and scampered forth;
  The fine sheep-dog, on the hearth,
  Kindly eyed her for her worth.

X.

  Up the air, across the moor,
  As they left the cottage door,

  Chimed the merry village-hells,
  Music-wrapt the neighbouring fells,
  Stirred the heart's awakened cells,
  Like fine strains from fairy dells.

  Past the orchard, down the lane,
  By fresh wavy fields of grain,

  By the brook, that told its love
  To the pasture, glen, and grove—
  Sacred haunts, that well could prove
  Vows enregistered above.

  By the restless mill, where stood,
  Bowing in his amplest mood,

  The old miller, hat in hand,
  Rich in goodness, rich in land,
  On whose features, grave and bland,
  Glowed a blessing for the band.

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  Through the village, where, behind
  Many a half-uplifted blind,

  Eyes, that might have lit the skies
  Of Mahomet's Paradise,
  Flashed behind the curtains' dyes,
  With a cheerful, half-surprise.

  Through the village, underneath,
  Many a blooming flower-wreath,

  Garlanding the arches green
  Beared in honour of the queen
  Of this day of days serene,
  Day of days to Mariline.

  To the church, whose cheering bells
  Told the tale in music-swells—

  Told it to the country wide,
  With an earnest kind of pride—
  Something not to be denied—
  "Mariline must be a Bride!"

XI.

  Up the aisle with solemn pace,
  Meeting God there, face to face.

  Never Bride more chaste or fair
  Stood before His altar there,
  Her ripe heart aflame with prayer,
  Blessing Him for all His care:

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  Every earthly promise given,
  Registered with joy in heaven.

  From the galleries looked down,
  Village belle and country clown,
  Men with honest labour brown,
  Far removed from mart or town:

  Smiling with a zealous pride
  On the shepherd and his bride—

  Playmates of their early days;
  For their walks in wisdom's ways,
  Ever crowned with honoured bays
  Of esteem and ardent praise.

XII.

  Well done, servant of the Lord!
  Grave expounder of His Word,

  Who in distant Galilee
  Graced the marriage feast, that He,
  With all due solemnity,
  Might commission such as thee

  To do likewise, and unite
  Souls like these in marriage plight.

  With what manly, gentle pride,
  The glad Shepherd clasps his Bride!
  Love like theirs, so true and tried,
  Ever true love must abide!

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XIII.

  Ye whose souls are strong and firm,
  In whom love's electric germ

  Has been fanned into a flame
  At the mention of a name;
  Ye whose souls are still the same
  As when first the Victor came,

  Stinging every nerve to life,
  In the beatific strife,

  Till the man's divinest part
  Ruled triumphant in the heart,
  And, with shrinking, sudden start,
  The bleak old world stood apart,

  Periling the wild Ideal
  By the presence of the Real:

  Ye, and ye alone, can know
  How these twain souls burn and glow,
  Can interpret every throe
  Of the full heart's overflow,

  That imparts that light serene
  To the brow of Mariline.

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THE HAPPY HARVESTERS.

A CANTATA.

I.

  Autumn, like an old poet in a haze
  Of golden