Who is that?
Oh, it is the Master's fair-haired son,
Come to wed the warrior's beauteous daughter.
Tall and manly is his form;
Beautiful and fair is she;
See his step how light,
See his eyes how bright with love and joy;
How glad he looks:
So turns his eyes the husband-dove
Upon its gentle little wife.
He came and caught the maiden in his arms,
He pressed her to his bosom as a mother
Presses her infant.
She was pleased, and wept,
But her's were tears of joy;
Hung her head, and hid her beautuous face,
Yet was she not ashamed.
Her's was maiden bashfulness.
Blushes she to be so caught in love?
See her stolen glances! sunlit glances! see!
She doth not altogether hate the youth.
Why dost thou weep, mother of the bride?
Weepst thou to be parted from thy daughter?
Weep no more.
What is life?
A reed beat down by every wind that stirs,
A flower nipt by the first autumnal blast,
A deer that perishes by prick of thorn,
Here at morning,
Gone at evening.
Weep not, tender mother of the bride;
Soon thou'lt meet her in the happy vales
Beyond the setting sun:
Ask the lover, he will tell thee so.
[Illustration: _Designed & Etched by W. M. Brookefield R. H. A._