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.
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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=.