I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth; But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health; And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light.
Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out, And see what the glad, golden sun is about: His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart.
That I _will_ "be near" on thy "bridal day"-- Be with thee before we are ten hours older, This hasty messenger comes to say, And bringing its witness,--a pearly _folder_.
And this, perhaps, as a pointed sign, By the light upon Hymen's altar burning, May signify, to a heart like thine, "What a leaf to-day in thy life is turning!"
May the lines for thy future reading there, With no sad characters dark or frowning, In every letter be bright and fair, To thee and to him thou to-day art crowning.
Accept the token, and let it prove, As long as thou hence shalt remain its owner, When thou must be at a far remove From her, memorial of the donor.
Thou 'lt see engraved on its handle-part, The form of a pen, with its top of feather-- A type of the wings that heart and heart May find, when absent, to fly together.
I send thee an opening, thornless rose, Harmless and soft as the peaceful turtle; With an emerald sprig from a branch that grows On the single stalk of my true green myrtle.
I bound them about with a silver thread; But, ere thy hand is the cord untwining, The rose will have drooped, or its leaves be shed, While the myrtle still is freshly shining.
But I _will_ "be near" in thy bridal hour, This, "Wednesday, evening, at half past seven," And give at the nuptials my holier dower,-- A prayer for a smile on them from Heaven.
To think of thee, my Hannah-- To sit and think of thee, Is to my heart like manna, Or balsam from the tree.
For, first, its tendrils feeding, It gives them strength to cling; And then, if pained or bleeding, It soothes the wound or sting.
To thine, a fount of feeling The warmest and the best, 'T is sweet to seem revealing The secrets of my breast.
Of half its care and trouble, My bosom, thus beguiled, Feels every joy is double, When on it thou hast smiled.
'T is dark and stormy weather-- Our first October day; But we are here together, Though thou art far away.