University of Virginia Library

No more of grief:—the viol is awake,
Pouring its brisk and blood-bestirring soul
In gushes of quaint melody. Behold!
Down the dim vista of yon bowery lane,
Through whose full foliage peeps the house of God—
A troop of joyous villagers, who come
In all the fresh hilarity of youth
To grace the wedding of a rustic pair.
Let me draw near in sympathy, and be
A brief partaker of their liberal joy;
For though our years have passed the lusty noon
Of fleeting life, it is a pleasure still,
If care hath eaten not our hearts away,
To see another's gladness, and to feel
We live more sweetly when we live for all.
Hither they come, and marching in the van
The silver-haired musician of the vales
Leads the gay group with merry music home.
With what a sturdy mien, and beaming eye
The bridegroom walks! With what a timid grace
The yet bewildered bride, whose fluttering heart
Is brimming with a new, subdued delight!

They little deem, poor souls! that they have passed
From out the garden of that bright romance
Wherein they learned to love; they little deem
They stand upon the threshold of a new
And yet uncertain being, which may bring
Sorrow and strife, or peacefulness and joy,
As the mixed passions of their souls prevail.
But be our blessings with them:—they are near
The dwelling of their kin, a rural spot,
Half-hidden in the may-bloom of its trees—
Where rose and woodbine round each humble door
Marry in summer sweetness, while the bees,
Like summer friends, cling clustering about
The flowers that feed them. Mark with what a look
Of pleasurable pride the parents greet
Their happy children,—though the mother's kiss
Hath left a tear upon the daughter's cheek
Which was not there! With what a gladdening shout
Of boisterous friendship, genuine though rude,
Old co-mates mingle; while each brawny hand
Is shaken with a heartiness of soul
Scarce known beyond the dwellings of the poor!
Meanwhile the calm and sunny afternoon
(To two, at least, the loveliest of the year)
Is winged with many a pleasantry and joke,
With many a story of departed times.
And now the ale-cup with its amber draught
Goes round incessantly; the fragrant smoke,
In many a graceful wreath from many a pipe,
Soars circling to the roof; the laugh grows loud,
The song grows gay, the converse less confined,
Till warmed and wakened into wild delight,
The old musician twangs his ready strings
(Just as the ruddy sun goes westering down),
And calls them to the dance. “A dance!” “A dance!”
With simultaneous voice the guests exclaim;
And eager to provide a fitting space,
Chair, table, chest, against the homely walls
They pile in pyramids. Up start the throng,
And rank, promiscuous partners, face to face;
The old musician grasps his friendly bow,
And, leaning to his instrument as one
Who holds communion with some hidden power,
He stamps his earnest foot upon the ground,
And dashing off some brave and buoyant air,
Whirls all his listeners into sudden life.
On moves the living labyrinth, where feet
That bid defiance unto time and tune
Torture the tender toe, and threaten oft
Disastrous warfare to the fragile gown.
The dancers smile—they pant, they toil, they shout
With still determined vigour;—as for grace
They understand it not; anon they flag,
Exhausted strength retards the bounding step;
Each maiden's cheek is burning with the blood
Gathered from all her veins—her eyes grow bright
With soul-exciting labour: still untired,
The old musician, with a roguish leer,
Inexorable mortal! plies his bow
With quick, remorseless energy, and keeps
That human whirlpool, that resistless throng,
Still on their weary feet: but faint at length
“The force of fiddle can no farther go,”
And strange disorder ends the maddening dance.

The supper passed, the due thanksgiving breathed,
The cheering tankard set upon the board
And honoured oft, a few more happy hours—
Ere quiet midnight shows her inmost stars—
Are passed in glad communion round the hearth.
The old musician, skilled in many things,
Awakes his viol to some tender theme
Of love and song, some story of distress,
Some legend of old times: his artless voice
With natural pathos answering to the string
His hand makes eloquent. Is it not strange
The self-same agent of unconscious sound
Should stir our laughter and provoke our tears;
Should rouse, subdue, electrify, and awe?
And yet 'tis even so; this friendly group,
Late mad with mirth, extravagant with joy,
Sit mute and mournful, fettered by a spell
Whose power they feel but cannot understand.
“The song hath ceased, the minstrel's task is done,”
The well-won praise leaps forth from every tongue,
And grateful pleasure looketh from the soul
Through every face:—alas! the hour is come,
Too soon for many a reveller, the brief,
The angel-wingèd hour of new delight,
Which comes but once through all the linkèd years
Of mortal life. That hour of bridal bliss
Let none profane, but on that humble roof,
Now rendered consecrate to hallowed love,
Invoke a blessing, and depart in peace!