Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is an old and hackney'd strain,—
The burthen of a worn-out song,
Again repeated and again,
As life's swift current rolls along,
And death draws nearer, year by year,
And eyes grow dim and locks turn grey,—
But still 'tis sweet to married ear,
The verse which greets the wedding-day.

This year, once more, we spend it, sweet,
Beneath the mountains, by the sea,
Near which so loved thy childish feet
To wander unrestrain'd and free;
And thou consorting with a tribe
Of Scottish cousins, fond and dear,
Did'st thus, though London-born, imbibe
The spirit of a mountaineer.

Far from the crowded haunts of men,
If fate permitted, thou would'st make
Thy dwelling in the loneliest glen,
Beside the least frequented lake;
Would'st choose the dashing mountain-stream,
The winds o'er snowy peaks that sweep,
To mingle with thy midnight dream,
To wake thee from thy morning sleep;—

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Would'st breed and rear a savage race
Of supple joint and sinewy limb,
Expert the eagles' haunts to trace,
And seize the salmon where they swim;
Whose souls no reverential awe
For social customs should have felt,
Nor lost that rude contempt for law
Which marks the nature of the Celt.

So be it!—in thy spirits' flow
Of freedom, nought have I to blame;
Its wildest outbursts well I know
That wedlock hath a spell to tame:
And thou, albeit thy heart may roam
Full oft to highland flood and fell,
Canst cheer a quiet English home,
And charm an English circle well.

'Twas no blind chance which call'd thee forth,
But Heaven's benign and bounteous will,
From thy beloved paternal North,
Thy proper mission to fulfil.
Look out!—thy own ancestral land,
Seen dim and distant o'er the sea,
Hath past into a stranger's hand,—
A home no more for thine and thee.

But fast by England's central spot
Is now thy place of love and rest;
The accepted, not the chosen lot,
Is that which ever proves the best.
Heaven gives thee, on thy native soil,
Meet interchange of work and play;—
Thy southern home for months of toil,
Thy weeks of highland holiday.

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This year, in our connubial life,
Is but the last of twenty-seven,
Whose summers thou hast spent, sweet wife,—
Eighteen on earth, and nine in heaven:
So oft the magic power of steam
Hath freed thee from thy prison chain,
And help'd thee to renew the dream
Of childhood's happiest days again.

The mingled cup of grief and joy,
Which others drain, we two have drain'd;
Our gold hath had its due alloy,
Much have we lost, and something gain'd:
And now upon the downward slope,
As on we speed, of life's decline,
Not yet exempt from fear and hope
Is this brief view of thine and mine.

Almost without a cloud of grief,
Our first nine years in sunshine pass'd,—
Our summer boughs were green in leaf,
When one was shiver'd by the blast:
Nine more roll'd on,—beside this shore,
With sons and daughters richly blest,
We found, as we had found before,
The needful boon of health and rest.

Nine more are gone,—again we meet,
Our number undiminish'd still,—
But one beneath the tropic heat
Doth his appointed task fulfil;
And one, a scholar not ungraced,
Is gone to earn a scholar's bread,
And two have on our knees been placed,
While life's declining summer fled.

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For all that hath been ours so long,—
For all that still continues ours,—
For life in both still sound and strong,—
For mind untouch'd in all its powers,—
For whatsoe'er of budding good
In sons or daughters we can see,—
For faith and hope's appointed food,—
Kind heaven be blest by thee and me!

On what remains of mortal years
We will not think, nor blindly guess
What store reserv'd of smiles or tears
Life's coming page may blot or bless;
To-day at least we hope to spend
Together,—with to-morrow's sun
My sojourn in this isle must end,—
This last should be our happiest one.

Come forth, and by the lone sea-shore,
And through the woods we two will stray,
And many a shady nook explore,
And many a sunny creek and bay;
And, if thou wilt, when thou art laid
Beneath the boughs, or by the sea,
I'll read the rhymes I lately made,
When thou wast far away from me.

A trivial tale do they unfold,—
A string of facts from first to last,
Connecting feelings new and old,—
The present with the dreamy past;
The days when thou and I were young,
Bridegroom and bride, with later life,
In which approaching age hath flung
Its shadows upon man and wife.

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So, when to-morrow I am gone,
My last few idle days to spend
Beside his native lake with one,
Ere we had met, my bosom friend,—
Shalt thou, on loving thoughts intent,
Read o'er that strange, uxorious lay,
And think how pleasantly we spent
Our twenty-seventh wedding-day.