A moonlit garden, he beside me there;
My trembling hand above my heart was pressed,
To calm its thrills of happy, sweet unrest.
I longed so much his tale of love to hear,
Yet when he spoke was filled with fluttering fear—
A fear lest I might all unworthy prove
Of his affection true, of his deep love;
And something of my fears he seemed to know,
His manly voice had grown so soft and low.
Ah! what a tale he whispered in my ear,
So hard to answer, but how sweet to hear!
I could not answer; all my heart seemed filled
With language, but my recreant tongue was stilled.
And oh! so tender was his melting mood!
He clasped my hand—the clasp I understood;
He sought my eyes—but oh! I dared not raise
Those little tell-tales to receive his gaze;
‘One little word,’ he said, with fond caress.
I spoke; that word, that little word was—‘_Yes!_’
* * * * *
A morning when the sunshine seemed to be
The fairest thing on this fair earth to me,
For—so at least old tales and stories run—
The bride is blessèd whom it shines upon.
Assembled friends with presents rich and rare;
A laughing group of girlish bridesmaids fair;
A father—mother, clasping to their heart
The darling child with whom they fear to part,
The daughter who, like timid bird caressed,
Prepares to flutter from the parent nest.
And dearer, dearest to that blushing bride
Is he whose place till death is by her side.
Ah, ever side by side, and hand in hand,
And heart to heart, henceforth those twain must stand.
Then many a fond caress mid tearful smiles;
Bells pealing, holy altar, flower-strewn aisles;
A wreath—a snowy robe—a bridal veil—
A happy bride, who tells this ‘old, old tale!’
FLORENCE NIXON.
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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._