I.
With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, Wide waves the morn her golden wing; With countless variegated beams The empurpled orient glows and gleams; A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds The mountain's soaring summit shrouds; Along the wave the blue mist creeps, The towering forest trees are stirred By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, And with the matin song of bird, The hum of early bee is heard, Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, The coming of the bright-eyed morn; And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, Along the wildwood paths she flits, Hieing from leafy bower to bower, Culling from each its bud and flower, Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, To weave them in her bridal wreath. Now, pausing in her way, to hear The lay of some wild warbler near, Repaying him, in mocking tone, With music sweeter than his own; Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, Her image in its waves to see, With its sweet, gurgled music blending, A song of tenfold melody; Now, chasing the gay butterfly, That o'er her pathway passed her by, With graceas careless, glee as wild, As though she were some thoughtless child; Now, seated on some wayside stone, With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, In silent thoughtfulness, she seems To hold communion with her heart, Beguiling fancy with the dreams That from its Pure recesses start.
II.
There is a silent power, that o'er Our bosoms wields a wizard might, Restoring bygone years to light, With the same vivid glow they wore, Ere time had o'er their features cast The shadowy shroud that veils the past:-- To those who walk in wisdom's way, 'Tis welcome as an angel's smile; But those who from her counsels stray, Whose hearts are full of craft and guile, To them 'tis as a constant goad-- A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,-- A silent searcher of the breast, Which will not let the guilty rest. In childhood's pleasant -season born, It haunts us in all after time; From youth's serene and sunny morn To manhood's stern meridian prime. From manhood, till the weight of years, And life's dull constant toil, and tears, And passion's ever raging storm, Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form. True, youth, of hope and love possessed, By friends--youth has no foes--caressed, Finds in the present--happy boy!-- Enough of gaiety and joy; And man, whose visionary brain Begets that idle phantom train Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,-- A scourge--a bubble--and a name-- So often and so vainly sought-- Has little time for peaceful thought; And so they turn not back to gaze, Where faithful memory displays Her record of departed days; But oh! how loves the eye of age, To move along its pictured page, To scan and number, o'er and o'er, The joys that may return no more; The hopes that, blighted in their bloom, By disappointment's chilly gloom, Were given sadly to the tomb; The loves so wildly once enjoyed, By time's unsparing hand destroyed; The bright imaginative dreams, Portrayed by restless fancy's beams, By restless fancy's beams portrayed, Alas! but to delude and fade! To count these o'er and o'er again Is age's sole resort from pain. Then, stranger, marvel not that I Have claimed so long thy listening ear; I could not pass in silenceby Themes to my memory so dear, As those which make my story's close-- Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes.
III.
Ascending from the golden east, The sun had gained his zenith height, The guests were gathered to the feast, Prepared to grace the marriage rite; The youthful and the old were there, The rustic swain and bashful fair; The aged, reverend and gray, Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay, Each told, to while the time away, Some tale of his own wedding day; The youthful, timorous and shy, Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye, That, in its stolen glances, sends The language Love best, comprehends. The noontide hour goes by, and yet The bridegroom tarries--why? and where? Sure he could not his vows forget, When she who loves him is so fair! And then his honour, faith, and pride, Had bound him to a meaner bride, If once his promise had been given; But she, so pure, so far above The common forms of earthly mould, So like the incarnate shapes of love, Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven, His love for her could ne'er grow cold! And yet he comes not. Half way now, From where, at his meridian height, He pours his fullest, warmest light, To where, at eve, in his decline, The day-god sinks into the brine, When his diurnal task is done, Descends his ever burning throne, And still the bridegroom is not, there-- Say, why yet tarries he, and where?
IV.
