X.

Up the air, across the moor,

As they left the cottage door,

Chimed the merry village-hells,

Music-wrapt the neighbouring fells,

Stirred the heart's awakened cells,

Like fine strains from fairy dells.

Past the orchard, down the lane,

By fresh wavy fields of grain,

By the brook, that told its love

To the pasture, glen, and grove —

Sacred haunts, that well could prove

Vows enregistered above.

By the restless mill, where stood,

Bowing in his amplest mood,

The old miller, hat in hand,

Rich in goodness, rich in land,

On whose features, grave and bland,

Glowed a blessing for the band.

Through the village, where, behind

Many a half-uplifted blind,

Eyes, that might have lit the skies

Of Mahomet's Paradise,

Flashed behind the curtains’ dyes,

With a cheerful, half-surprise.

Through the village, underneath,

Many a blooming flower-wreath,

Garlanding the arches green

Beared in honour of the queen

Of this day of days serene,

Day of days to Mariline.

To the church, whose cheering bells

Told the tale in music-swells —

Told it to the country wide,

With an earnest kind of pride —

Something not to be denied —

“Mariline must be a Bride!”