O true and tried, so well and long,
     Demand not thou a marriage lay;
     In that it is thy marriage day
Is music more than any song.
Nor have I felt so much of bliss
     Since first he told me that he loved
     A daughter of our house; nor proved
Since that dark day a day like this;

Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er
     Some thrice three years: they went and came,
     Remade the blood and changed the frame,
And yet is love not less, but more;

No longer caring to embalm
     In dying songs a dead regret,
     But like a statue solid-set,
And moulded in colossal calm.

Regret is dead, but love is more
     Than in the summers that are flown,
     For I myself with these have grown
To something greater than before;

Which makes appear the songs I made
     As echoes out of weaker times,
     As half but idle brawling rhymes,
The sport of random sun and shade.

But where is she, the bridal flower,
     That must he made a wife ere noon?
     She enters, glowing like the moon
Of Eden on its bridal bower:

On me she bends her blissful eyes
     And then on thee; they meet thy look
     And brighten like the star that shook
Betwixt the palms of paradise.

O when her life was yet in bud,
     He too foretold the perfect rose.
     For thee she grew, for thee she grows
For ever, and as fair as good.

And thou art worthy; full of power;
     As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
     Consistent; wearing all that weight
Of learning lightly like a flower.

But now set out: the noon is near,
     And I must give away the bride;
     She fears not, or with thee beside
And me behind her, will not fear.

For I that danced her on my knee,
     That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm,
     That shielded all her life from harm
At last must part with her to thee;

Now waiting to be made a wife,
     Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
     Their pensive tablets round her head,
And the most living words of life

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
     The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again
     The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain
Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one.

Now sign your names, which shall be read,
     Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
     By village eyes as yet unborn;
The names are sign’d, and overhead

Begins the clash and clang that tells
     The joy to every wandering breeze;
     The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

O happy hour, and happier hours
     Await them. Many a merry face
     Salutes them–maidens of the place,
That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

O happy hour, behold the bride
     With him to whom her hand I gave.
     They leave the porch, they pass the grave
That has to-day its sunny side.

To-day the grave is bright for me,
     For them the light of life increased,
     Who stay to share the morning feast,
Who rest to-night beside the sea.

Let all my genial spirits advance
     To meet and greet a whiter sun;
     My drooping memory will not shun
The foaming grape of eastern France.

It circles round, and fancy plays,
     And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom,
     As drinking health to bride and groom
We wish them store of happy days.

Nor count me all to blame if I
     Conjecture of a stiller guest,
     Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy.

But they must go, the time draws on,
     And those white-favour’d horses wait;
     They rise, but linger; it is late;
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

A shade falls on us like the dark
     From little cloudlets on the grass,
     But sweeps away as out we pass
To range the woods, to roam the park,

Discussing how their courtship grew,
     And talk of others that are wed,
     And how she look’d, and what he said,
And back we come at fall of dew.

Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
     The shade of passing thought, the wealth
     Of words and wit, the double health,
The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

And last the dance;–till I retire:
     Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
     And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
And on the downs a rising fire:

And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
     Till over down and over dale
     All night the shining vapour sail
And pass the silent-lighted town,

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
     And catch at every mountain head,
     And o’er the friths that branch and spread
Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills;

And touch with shade the bridal doors,
     With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
     And breaking let the splendour fall
To spangle all the happy shores

By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
     And, star and system rolling past,
     A soul shall draw from out the vast
And strike his being into bounds,

And, moved thro’ life of lower phase,
     Result in man, be born and think,
     And act and love, a closer link
Betwixt us and the crowning race

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
     On knowledge; under whose command
     Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand
Is Nature like an open book;

No longer half-akin to brute,
     For all we thought and loved and did,
     And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed
Of what in them is flower and fruit;

Whereof the man, that with me trod
     This planet, was a noble type
     Appearing ere the times were ripe,
That friend of mine who lives in God,

That God, which ever lives and loves,
     One God, one law, one element,
     And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.