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186    MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

THE QUAKERESS BRIDE.

OH! not in the halls of the noble and proud,
Where Fashion assembles her glittering crowd,
Where all is in beauty and splendour arrayed,
Were the nuptials performed of the meek Quaker maid.

Nor yet in the temple those rites which she took,
By the altar, the mitre-crowned bishop, and book;
Where oft in her jewels doth stand the fair bride,
To whisper those vows which through life shall abide.

The building was humble, yet sacred to ONE
Who heeds the deep worship that utters no tone;
Whose presence is not to the temple confined,
But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind.

'T was there, all unveiled, save by modesty, stood 
The Quakeress bride, in her pure satin hood;
Her charms unadorned by the garland or gem,
Yet fair as the lily just plucked from its stem.

A tear glistened bright in her dark shaded eye,
And her bosom half-uttered a tremulous sigh,
As the hand she had pledged was confidingly given,
And the low murmured accents recorded in heaven.

I've been at the bridal where wealth spread the board,
Where the sparkling red wine in rich goblets was poured,
Where the priest in his surplice from ritual read,
And the solemn response was impressively said.

I've seen the fond sire in his thin locks of gray,
Give the pride of his heart to the bridegroom away,
While he brushed the big tear from his deep-furrowed cheek,
And bowed the assent which his lips might not speak;

MRS. E. C. KINNEY.   187

But in all the array of the costlier scene,
Naught seemed to my eye so sincere in its mien,
No language so fully the heart to resign,
As the Quakeress bride's—"UNTIL DEATH I AM THINE."

FADING AUTUMN.

TH' autumnal glories all have passed away!
The forest-leaves no more in hectic red 
Give glowing tokens of their brief decay,
But scattered lie, or rustle at the tread,
Like whispered warnings from the mouldering dead;
The naked trees stretch out their arms all day,
And each bald hill-top lifts its reverend head 
As if for some new covering to pray.
Come, WINTER, then, and spread thy robe of white 
Above the desolation of this scene;
And when the sun with gems shall make it bright,
Or, when its snowy folds by midnight's queen
Are silvered o'er with a serener light,
We'll cease to sigh for summer's living green.

A WINTER NIGHT.

How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene!
The moon in full-orbed glory sails above,
And stars in myriads around her move, 
Each looking down with watchful eye serene 
On earth, which, in a snowy shroud arrayed, 
And still, as if in death's embrace 'twere laid, 
Saddens the spirit with its corpse-like mien:
Yet doth it charm the eye—its gaze still hold;
Just as the face of one we loved, when cold 
And pale and lovely e'en in death 't is seen, 

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 18:53:47 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 18:29:48