The Bride

An Irish Poem

The bridal veil hangs o’er her brow;

The ring of gold is on her finger;

Her lips have breathed the marriage vow.

Why should she at the altar linger?

Why wears her gentle brow a shade?

Why dim her eye, when doubt is over?

Why does her slender form for aid

Lean tremblingly upon her lover?

Is it feeling of regret

For solemn vows lately spoken ?

fear, scarce own’d as yet.

That her new ties may soon broken ?

Ah, no! such causes darken not

The cloud that’s swiftly passing o’er her,

Her’s is a fair and happy lot