 | Benoni |  |
199
THE BRIDEGROOM'S SONG.
Arise, O tender beauties of the morning,—
Over the far blue hills arise and come!
Fair eyelets, brighten thro' the dim cloud-curtains,
And lead the faltering sunshine to our home!
Over the far blue hills arise and come!
Fair eyelets, brighten thro' the dim cloud-curtains,
And lead the faltering sunshine to our home!
Awake, my bride, and leave the warm white pillows,—
Arise, my love, my fair one—come away!
There is no shade upon the quiet mountains—
There is no thought of sorrow in the day:
Arise, my love, my fair one—come away!
There is no shade upon the quiet mountains—
There is no thought of sorrow in the day:
The joys to come have sent their bliss before them—
The joys around we make our own at will;
The joys departed, from still graves arising,
Crowd to our hearts and make us happier still.
The joys around we make our own at will;
The joys departed, from still graves arising,
Crowd to our hearts and make us happier still.
Lie here and rest—O rest as if for ever
Nothing but thou should be so near to me;
And look not far, but look a little moment
Out of my arms; and ask of all we see—
Nothing but thou should be so near to me;
And look not far, but look a little moment
Out of my arms; and ask of all we see—
200
Ask of the days when thro' impetuous kisses
Young passion, wild and crude in every sign,
Led us by windings sweet of close communion
To something calmer, something more divine,—
Young passion, wild and crude in every sign,
Led us by windings sweet of close communion
To something calmer, something more divine,—
Ask of thy love—the love of thine espousals,
That blush'd and blanch'd beneath the orange-flowers—
Ask of all bliss that was indeed delicious,
How more intense is this that now is ours!
That blush'd and blanch'd beneath the orange-flowers—
Ask of all bliss that was indeed delicious,
How more intense is this that now is ours!
And ask of me, how many a grace unconscious
Enfolds thee always like a saintly stole;
Yea, ask of me if aught that is not lovely
Can live within the compass of thy soul.
Enfolds thee always like a saintly stole;
Yea, ask of me if aught that is not lovely
Can live within the compass of thy soul.
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