Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis the sweet sixteenth of May—
How shall we keep holiday?
What the rites to Cupid due?
What to Hymen fond and true?
Dearest, where shall we find leisure
For that feast of holiest pleasure
Which this honour'd day demands,
Now dull care hath fill'd our hands
With such duties, sad and sober,
As from April to October,
Thence to April round again,
Make us toil with might and main,
Leaving scarce a moment free
For the freaks of phantasy;
For the dreams which disappear
Full three quarters of the year,
In our bosoms buried deep
Till the spring breeze breaks their sleep,—
When once more, like bees, they swarm
In the sunshine bright and warm;
For the dear and dreamy talk
Of a calm connubial walk,
When we two once more may wander,
Free to prate and free to ponder
On those days of youthful bliss,
When our lips first learnt to kiss;

289

When, in Windsor's forest shade,
Thou a young and dreaming maid,
I a fond and fervent swain,
Weak of heart and wild of brain,
Of love's folly took our fill,
“Wandering at our own sweet will?”

Now the days are alter'd quite,
Thou must work and I must write;
Thou hast children three to teach,
I have sermons three to preach,
Thou hast clothes to make and mend,
I've a straying flock to tend;
And the world hath grown so real,
That to roam in realms ideal
As we roved in days of yore—
We must think of it no more.
Fancy's reign is past and done,
That of sober truth begun.

How then, this sweet morn of May,
Shall we two keep holiday?
We will keep it as we may.
Though no frolic feast we make,
Yet our hearts shall be awake;
And our silent thoughts shall flee
To the realms of Memory.
We'll direct their stream to flow
Backward to nine years ago:
To the burning words that bound
This sweet chain our souls around;
To the first tumultuous kiss,
Harbinger of years of bliss;
To the mingled tear and smile,
Throb and thrill at Upton stile;
While full many a heart-flash'd glance,
Brightening either countenance,
Tells that, though nine years are over,
Each of us is still a lover;
Each, as every year hath flown,
Happier still and fonder grown.

290

Thoughts like these 'tis meet we call
To our silent festival;
Thoughts like these—but is there nought,
In the whole wide realm of Thought,
Meeter yet our hearts to cheer
On this day, of all the year
Fitliest due to musings high,
And divine philosophy?
Still our life is in its prime;
Still doth hope make friends with time;
Still unseam'd is either brow;
Yet I trust we are not now
Such in heart and mind and will,—
So unwean'd from folly still,
As when first love's fetters tied
The young bridegroom to the bride.
Forward let us bend our eyes
To our home beyond the skies;
For thereon, without amaze,
Faith hath made us free to gaze;
And though youth hath past away,
And my locks may soon turn grey,
And thy full and flashing eye
Lose its present brilliancy;
Yet such tokens we may greet
Of old Time's advancing feet,
With a holy joy that he
Ushers in Eternity;
And that all which fleets and fades
As he stealthily invades
That bright face and form of thine,
And these sturdy limbs of mine,
Doth a growing change prepare,
Laying thus our spirits bare;
Lightening slowly, day by day,
This their present load of clay,
That, on unencumber'd wing,
Heavenward they may learn to spring:
While, as we more fit become

291

For our everlasting home,
In our children we may see
All that we were wont to be—
Whatsoever gifts and powers
In our youth's best days were ours,—
As on a perennial stem,
Blossoming again in them.

Thus, though far from moonlit woods,
Streams, and bowers, and solitudes;
Far from wild romantic rambles—
Far from lonely brakes and brambles—
Compass'd round by this world's din,
But with love and peace within—
Thus, this sweet sixteenth of May,
Will we two keep holiday.