Epithalamion

To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Concealed through covert night.

Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will!
For greedy pleasure, careless of your toys,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joys,
Then what ye do, albeit good or ill.

All night therefore attend your merry play,
For it will soon be day:

Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing;

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Nor will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peeps?

Or whose is that fair face that shines so bright?

Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps,

But walks about high heaven all the night?

O! fairest goddess, do thou not envy

My love with me to spy:

For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,

And for a fleece of wool, which privily

The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,

His pleasures with thee wrought.

Therefore to us be favorable now;

And since of women's labors thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,

Incline thy will to effect our wishful vow,

And the chaste womb inform with timely seed,
That may our comfort breed:

Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing;
Nor let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring.

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might
The laws of wedlock still dost patronize,

And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;
And eke for comfort often called art

Of women in their smart;

Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.

And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand
The bridal bower and genial bed remain,
Without blemish or stain;

And the sweet pleasures of their love's delight
With secret aid dost succor and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny;
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou, fair Hebe! and thou, Hymen free!
Grant that it may so be.

Till which we cease your further praise to sing;
Nor any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring.
And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadful darkness lend desirèd light;
And all ye powers which in the same remain,
More than we men can feign,

Pour out your blessing on us plenteously,

And happy influence upon us rain,

That we may raise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possess
With lasting happiness,

Up to your haughty palaces may mount;
And, for the guerdon of their glorious merit,
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our timely joys to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring!

Song! made in lieu of many ornaments,

With which my love should duly have been decked,
Which cutting off through hasty accidents,

Ye would not stay your due time to expect,
But promised both to recompense;

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endless monument.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]

BRIDAL SONG

From "The Two Noble Kinsmen"

ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,

Not royal in their smells alone,

The Newly-Wedded

But in their hue;

Maiden pinks, of odor faint,

Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;

Merry springtime's harbinger,

With her bells dim;

Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim;

All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!

Not an angel of the air,

Bird melodious or bird fair,

Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor

The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pye,

May on our bride-house perch or sing,

Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly!

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John Fletcher (?) [1579-1625]

THE NEWLY-WEDDED

Now the rite is duly done,

Now the word is spoken,
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne'er be broken;
Rest we, dearest, in our home,
Roam we o'er the heather:
We shall rest, and we shall roam,
Shall we not? together.

From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us;
From this hour the winter snows

Lighter fall to harm us:

Fair or foul-on land or sea

Come the wind or weather,
Best and worst, whate'er they be,

We shall share together.

Death, who friend from friend can part,

Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,

Closer to each other:

We will call his anger play,

Deem his dart a feather,

When we meet him on our way

Hand in hand together.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

"I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING"

I SAW two clouds at morning,

Tinged by the rising sun,

And in the dawn they floated on,

And mingled into one;

I thought that morning cloud was blest,

It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents

Flow smoothly to their meeting,

And join their course, with silent force,

In peace each other greeting;

Calm was their course through banks of green,
While dimpling eddies played between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;

Like summer's beam, and summer's stream,

Float on, in joy, to meet

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease,

A purer sky, where all is peace.

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard [1796-1828]

Holy Matrimony

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HOLY MATRIMONY

THE Voice that breathed o'er Eden,
That earliest wedding-day,
The primal marriage blessing,
It hath not passed away.

Still in the pure espousal

Of Christian man and maid,
The holy Three are with us,
The threefold grace is said.

For dower of blessed children,
For love and faith's sweet sake,

For high mysterious union,

Which naught on earth may break.

Be present, awful Father,
To give away this bride,

As Eve thou gav'st to Adam
Out of his own pierced side:

Be present, Son of Mary,

To join their loving hands, As thou didst bind two natures In thine eternal bands:

Be present, Holiest Spirit,

To bless them as they kneel,
As thou for Christ, the Bridegroom,
The heavenly Spouse dost seal.

Oh, spread thy pure wing o'er them,
Let no ill power find place,

When onward to thine altar

The hallowed path they trace,

To cast their crowns before thee

In perfect sacrifice,

Till to the home of gladness

With Christ's own Bride they rise. AMEN.

John Keble [1792-1866]