All impulses of soul and sense,
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve.
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An unextinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long.
She wept with pity and delight;
She blushed with love and maiden shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stepped;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head looked up,
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel than see,
The beating of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride,
And so I won my Genevieve-
My bright and beauteous Bride!
THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.
VERY wedding, says the proverb,
Makes another, soon or late;
Never yet was any marriage
Entered in the book of Fate,
But the names were also written
Of the patient pair that wait.
Blessings then upon the morning,
When my friend with fondest look,
By the solemn rites' persuasion,
By himself a mistress took,
And the Destinies recorded
Another two, within their book.
While the priest fulfilled his office,
Still the ground the lovers eyed,
And the parents and the kinsmen
Aimed their glances at the bride,
But the groomsmen eyed the virgins,
Who were waiting at her side.
Three there were that stood beside her,
One was dark, and one was fair,
But nor fair, nor dark, the other,
Save her Arab eyes and hair;
Neither dark nor fair I call her,
Yet she was the fairest there.
While her groomsman-shall I own it?
Yes, to thee, and only thee-
Gazed upon the dark-eyed maiden,
Who was fairest of the three,
Then he thought. "How blest the bridal
Were the bride but such as she!"
Then I mused upon the adage,
Till my wisdom was perplexed,
And I wondered as the churchman
Dwelt upon the holy text;
Which of all who heard the lesson,
Should require his service next.
Whose will be the next occasion,
For the flowers, the feast, the wine?
Thine, perchance, my dearest lady,
Or, who knows, it may be mine;
What if 't were-forgive the fancy
What if 't were-both mine and thine?
LIFE outweighs all things, if Love lies within it.
LADY, trust the generous boy,
His smiles are full of light and joy,
And e'en his most envenomed dart,
Is better than a vacant heart.
BRINGING WATER FROM THE WELL.
EARLY on a summer's morn,
While the lark was singing sweet,
Came, beyond the ancient farm-house,
Sounds of lightly tripping feet.
"Twas a lowly cottage maiden,
Going, why, let young hearts tell,
With her homely pitcher laden,
Fetching water from the well.
Shadows lay athwart the pathway,
All along the quiet lane,
And the breezes of the morning
Moved them to and fro again.
O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow,
Passed the maiden of the farm,
With a charméd heart within her,
Thinking of no ill nor harm.
Pleasant, surely, were her musings,
For the nodding leaves in vain,
Sought to press their bright'ning image
On her ever busy brain.
Leaves and joyous birds went by her,
Like a dim, half-waking dream,
And her soul was only conscious
Of life's gladdest summer gleam.
At the old lane's shady turning,
Lay a well of water bright,
Singing soft its hallelujahs
To the gracious morning light;
Fern leaves, broad, and green, bent o'er it,
Where its silver droplets fell,
And the fairies dwelt beside it,
In the spotted fox-glove bell.
Back she bent the shading fern-leaves,
Dipped the pitcher in the tide-
Drew it, with the dripping waters
Flowing o'er its glazed side.
But before her arm could place it
On her shiny, wavy hair,
By her side a youth was standing!
Love rejoiced to see the pair.
Tones of tremulous emotion
Trailed upon the morning breeze, Gentle words of heart devotion Whispered 'neath the ancient trees. But the holy, bless'd secrets,
It becomes me not to tell :
Life had met another meaning-
Fetching water from the well!
Down the rural lane they sauntered,
He the burdened pitcher bore;
She with dewy eyes down looking,
Grew more beauteous than before!
When they neared the silent homestead,
Up he raised the pitcher light,
Like a fitting crown he placed it
On her head of wavelets bright.
Emblem of the coming burdens
That for love of him she'd bear,
Calling every burden blessed,
If his love but lighten there!
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