Thus my grandsire led his bride, lily-robed and gentian-eyed,
Past the brook that sang unceasing her new name in silver tone,
Underneath the maple grove, where the leaves such carpet wove,
As their jealous blushes strove to surpass the lady's own,

To a cottage, woodbine-thatched, whose rude door his hand unlatched,
While above the drooping eyelids with their dreamy smile below,
Close he bent his comely head, — so the gosspi squirrels said,
Peeping through the oak-leaves red, fifty happy years ago.

For their love white plumage lent to the days of their content,
And so swift the singing seasons flew before their wedded feet,
That themselves might scarcely know where the sunbeams met the snow,
And the blossoms ceased to blow in the shadow of the wheat.

Thus their youth ran into age, and albeit their pilgrimage