But where is she, the bridal flower, That must be made a wife ere noon?

She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower:

On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise.

O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose.

For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good.

And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear.

For I that danced her on my knee, And watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee;

Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The "wilt thou" answer'd, and again The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet "I will" has made you one.

Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign'd, and overhead

Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them--maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave.

They leave the porch, they pa.s.s the grave That has to-day its sunny side.

To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea.

Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France.

It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days.

Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour'd horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the gra.s.s, But sweeps away as out we pa.s.s To range the woods, to roam the park,

Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look'd, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew.

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of pa.s.sing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

And last the dance;--till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire:

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pa.s.s the silent-lighted town,

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o'er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro' the hills;

And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy sh.o.r.es

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds,

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book;

No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit;

Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a n.o.ble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in G.o.d,

That G.o.d, which ever lives and loves, One G.o.d, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.

CHARLES TENNYSON-TURNER

_Midnight, June 30, 1879_

I

Midnight--in no midsummer tune The breakers lash the sh.o.r.es: The cuckoo of a joyless June Is calling out of doors:

And thou hast vanish'd from thine own To that which looks like rest, True brother, only to be known By those who love thee best.

II

Midnight--and joyless June gone by, And from the deluged park The cuckoo of a worse July Is calling thro' the dark:

But thou art silent underground, And o'er thee streams the rain, True poet, surely to be found When Truth is found again.

III

And, now to these unsummer'd skies The summer bird is still, Far off a phantom cuckoo cries From out a phantom hill;

And thro' this midnight breaks the sun Of sixty years away, The light of days when life begun, The days that seem to-day,

When all my griefs were shared with thee, As all my hopes were thine-- As all thou wert was one with me, May all thou art be mine!

[Ill.u.s.tration: EDMUND LUSHINGTON (Who married Cecilia Tennyson, and was Professor of Greek in the University of Glasgow).]

TENNYSON AND LUSHINGTON

By Sir HENRY CRAIK, K.C.B., M.P.