PART SECOND.

Again unto the lofty fane,
  Sweet Frankie lightly went;
With smiling joy and same of pair
  Upon her features blent. 
Again, as on that sunny morn,
  When white-winged angels stood,
To see her, of bright water, born,
  Before the preacher good. 
Again within the chancel’s gloom,
  She sweetly, gently stands;
With marriage hymn, with rich perfume,
  With Hymen’s happy bands;
With wild-rose wreaths, with gayest bloom,
  And wreathed maiden’s hands. 
But, now she stands with me even there,
  With sweetly downcast eyes,
So purely white, so passing fair,
  Like one of Paradise. 
The preacher speaks the solemn words,
  Yet fraught with deepest bliss;
We twain in one are bound by chords,
  With sob—­with clasp—­with kiss. 
Returning from that sacred place,
  All earth and sky rejoiced,
And all the winds and waters’ race
  Their compliments then voiced. 
The birds sang sweetly on the spray,
  As they ne’er sang before;
And love lay o’er the world away,
  A robe of golden ore.

And now, we live in Elfindale,
  Dear Frank and I together;
And there is light on this sweet dale,
  In calm, or stormy weather. 
A fairy daughter leaps between
  Our nightly moving paces;
Upon whose soft and marble brow,
  Gleam many artless graces. 
We dwell, we dwell, in Elfindale—­
  I—­child—­and happy mother;
And, if earth holds a sweeter vale,
  We cannot wish another. 
Life has been arched with bluer skies,
  By curved rainbows brighter;
And nature—­ah! what wondrous dyes,
  Now lavishly bedight her. 
Love has become a glorious robe,
  With thickest gold o’erladen;
And now we dwell upon a globe
  Which is, indeed, an Aidenn. 
I dwell with fixed eyes upon
  My wife and cherub maiden,
I feel the light of that fire-sun,
  That broadly shines on Aidenn,—­
And all our days that brightly run,
  Are heavily joy-laden—­
And now we know our grief is done,
  And that we dwell in Aidenn.

OF A SKYLARK.

At dawn I rose from silent sleep,
  And heard a sky-lark singing,
Amid the azure far and deep,
  Till all the arch was ringing.

And now, as deeper, deeper still
  His form sank into heaven,
Me-seemed his heart’s concentered thrill,
  To his loved Lord was given.

If I possessed such wondrous wings,
  I would soar and sing to heaven,
Till my freed soul from sordid things,
  Should thus be widely riven.

THE PRINCESS OF PERU.

Respectfully inscribed to miss Mary T. Robertson of Abingdon, Va.