And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love, and virgin-shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped-- Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.
The grapes upon the Vicar's wall Were ripe as ripe could be; And yellow leaves in sun and wind Were falling from the tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane Still swung the spikes of corn: Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday-- Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church, There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over boughed, For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track The bride and bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, Seemed cheerful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came, I've heard poor Mary say, As soon as she stepped into the sun, Her heart it died away.
And when the Vicar join'd their hands, Her limbs did creep and freeze; But when they prayed, she thought she saw Her mother on her knees.
And o'er the church-path they returned-- I saw poor Mary's back, Just as she stepped beneath the boughs Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track The married maiden set: That moment--I have heard her say-- She wished she could forget.
The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat-- Then came a chill like death: And when the merry bells rang out, They seemed to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest mother's curse No child could ever thrive: A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive.
So five months passed: the mother still Would never heal the strife; But Edward was a loving man, And Mary a fond wife.
"My sister may not visit us, My mother says her nay: O Edward! you are all to me, I wish for your sake I could be More lifesome and more gay.