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O TRUE and tried, so well and long,
Is music more than any song.
Nor have I felt so much of bliss
Since that dark day a day like this:
Tho' I since then have number'd o'er
And yet is love not less, but more;
No longer caring to embalm
And moulded in colossal calm.
Regret is dead, but love is more
Than in tho summers that are flown,
To something greater than before;
Which makes appear the songs I made
The sport of random sun and shade.
But where is she, the bridal flower,
That must be made a wife ere noon t
Of Eden on its bridal bower:
On mo she bends her blissful eyes
And then on thee; they meet thy look
Betwixt the palms of paradise.
O when her life was yet in bud,
He too foretold tho perfect rose.
For ever, and as fair as good.
And thou art worthy; full of power;
Of learning lightly like a flower.
But now set out : the noon is near,
And me behind her, will not fear:
For I that danced her on my knee,
At last must part with her to thee;
Now waiting to be made a wife,
And the most living words of life
Breathed in her car. The ring is on,
Her sweet ‘I will' has made ye one.
Now sign your names, which shall be read,
The names are sign'd, and overhead
Begins the clash and clang that tells
The joy to every wandering breeze;
The dead leaf trembles to the bells.
O happy hour, and happier hours
Await them. Many a merry face
That pelt us in the poreh with flowers.
O happy hour, behold the bride
With him to whom her hand I gave.
That has to-day its sunny sjde.
To-day the grave is bright for me,
For them the light of life increased,
Who rest to-night beside the sea.
Let all my genial spirits advance
The foaming grape of eastern France.
It circles round, and fancy plays,
We wish them store of happy days.
Nor count me all to blame if I
And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.
But they must go, the time draws on,
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.
A shade falls on us like the dark
To range the woods, to roam the park,