(The evening mail and nut-brown ale,
    His pipe and rocking-chair,
  Are waiting long, while the bridal throng
    Still lingers unaware.)

  An ancient gloom fills all the room,
    And dims the lamps above,
  Though wall and aisle in verdure smile,
    Through wreath and Christmas grove.

  By branching pines and graceful vines,
    Slow glides the youthful pair
  To the altar green, with brow serene,
    And kneel together there.

  Soft breathes the vow, responsive now,
    In calm but earnest tone. 
  The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing! 
    Fast binds the twain in one.

  The solemn word no longer heard,
    With chastened steps and slow,
  And heart in heart, no more to part,
    To “Home, sweet Home,” they go.

  Fresh now, again, o’er snowy main,
    The winged steeds return: 
  On roughening rock, with shriek and shock,
    The flashing runners burn.

  O’er cradling drift, secure though swift,—­
    Now smooth, now rough, the track,—­
  The furious sleigh devours the way,
    As lash and harness crack.

  Through furs and wool, the air, so cool,
    Is felt or feared no more;
  Though gay the steeds with icy beads,
    And their flanks are frosted o’er.

  A fitful light, scarce yet in sight,
    Gleams through the opening wood: 
  Ah! now they come to their hill-side home,
    In merry, merry mood.

  Four lovely girls, a string of pearls,
    Are found in place of three: 
  Four daughters fair are gathered there
    Around the Christmas-tree.

  As roars the fire, their loving sire
    A warmer welcome deals;
  And, stooping low, on one fair brow
    His heart’s adoption seals.

  A dearer bliss, a mother’s kiss,
    Awaits the blushing bride: 
  One look above! then smiles of love
    Express her joy and pride.

  Once more good cheer removes the tear,
    Returns the joyous smile;
  Soon laughter, poured around the board,
    Rings through the spacious pile.

  While dance and song employ them long,
    Steals in the cold, gray dawn! 
  Back to your urn, ye phantoms, turn,
    And vanish o’er the lawn.

  Stern, though in tears, with Fatal shears,
    Time scattered all those pearls! 
  They fell, unstrung, old graves among;
    O’er all the snow-wreath curls!

  Yet shines that light from lattice bright,
    Wide o’er the grass, or snow;
  Still all the room its rays illume,
    As when, so long ago,

  Its arrowy star recalled the car
    Then winding round the wood,
  And lime-rock gray threw back the ray
    Across the rapid flood.

  Though cold each form, their love, still warm,
    From hearth and lattice glows: 
  Hearts kind and dear yet linger here,
    And bid us to repose.