Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING; OR, TEN YEARS AFTER, by ALEXANDER SMITH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING; OR, TEN YEARS AFTER, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: The country ways are full of mire
Last Line: And die into my wedding day.
Subject(s): Marriage; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


THE country ways are full of mire,
The boughs toss in the fading light,
The winds blow out the sunset's fire,
And sudden droppeth down the night.
I sit in this familiar room,
Where mud-splashed hunting squires resort;
My sole companion in the gloom
This slowly dying pint of port.

'Mong all the joys my soul hath known,
'Mong errors over which it grieves.
I sit at this dark hour alone,
Like Autumn 'mid his withered leaves.
This is a night of wild farewells
To all the past, the good, the fair;
To-morrow, and my wedding bells
Will make a music in the air.

Like a wet fisher tempest-tost,
Who sees throughout the weltering night
Afar on some low-lying coast
The streaming of a rainy light,
I saw this hour, -- and now 'tis come;
The rooms are lit, the feast is set;
Within the twilight I am dumb,
My heart filled with a vague regret.

I cannot say, in Eastern style,
Where'er she treads the pansy blows,
Nor call her eyes twin-stars, her smile
A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose.
Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do,
Talk of my raptures. O, how sore
The fond romance of twenty-two
Is parodied ere thirty-four!

To-night I shake hands with the past, --
Familiar years, adieu, adieu!
An unknown door is open cast,
An empty future wide and new
Stands waiting. O, ye naked rooms,
Void, desolate, without a charm!
Will love's smile chase your lonely glooms,
And drape your walls, and make them warm

The man who knew while he was young,
Some soft and soul-subduing air,
Melts when again he hears it sung,
Although 'tis only half so fair.
So love I thee, and love is sweet,
(My Florence, 'tis the cruel truth)
Because it can to age repeat
That long-lost passion of my youth.

O, often did my spirit melt,
Blurred letters, o'er your artless rhymes!
Fair trees, in which the sunshine dwelt,
I've kissed thee many a million times!
And now 'tis done. -- My passionate tears,
Mad pleadings with an iron fate,
And all the sweetness of my years,
Are blackened ashes in the grate.

Then ring in the wind, my wedding chimes;
Smile, villagers, at every door;
Old churchyard, stuffed with buried crimes,
Be clad in sunshine, o'er and o'er;
And youthful maidens, white and sweet,
Scatter your blossoms far and wide;
And with a bridal chorus greet
This happy bridegroom and his bride.

"This happy bridegroom!" there is sin
At bottom of my thankless mood:
What if desert alone could win
For me life's chiefest grace and good!
Love gives itself, and if not given,
No genius, beauty, state, nor wit,
No gold of earth, no gem of heaven,
Is rich enough to purchase it.

It may be, Florence, loving thee,
My heart will its old memories keep;
Like some worn sea-shell from the sea,
Filled with the music of the deep.
And you may watch, on nights of rain,
A shadow on my brow encroach;
Be startled by my sudden pain,
And tenderness of self-reproach.

It may be that your loving wiles
Will call a sigh from far-off years;
It may be that your happiest smiles
Will brim my eyes with hopeless tears;
It may be that my sleeping breath
Will shake, with painful visions wrung;
And, in the awful trance of death,
A stranger's name be on my tongue.

Ye phantoms, born of bitter blood,
Ye ghosts of passion, lean and worn,
Ye terrors of a lonely mood,
What do you here on a wedding morn?
For, as the dawning sweet and fast
Through all the heaven spreads and flows,
Within life's discord, rude and vast,
Love's subtle music grows and grows.

And lightened is the heavy curse,
And clearer is the weary road;
The very worm the sea-weeds nurse
Is cared for by the eternal God.
My love, pale blossom of the snow,
Has pierced earth wet with wintry showers, --
O may it drink the sun, and blow,
And be followed by all the year of flowers!

Black Bayard from the stable bring;
The rain is o'er, the wind is down;
Round stirring farms the birds will sing,
The dawn stand in the sleeping town,
Within an hour. This is her gate,
Her sodden roses droop in night,
And -- emblem of my happy fate --
In one dear window there is light.

The dawn is oozing pale and cold
Through the damp east for many a mile;
When half my tale of life is told
Grim-featured Time begins to smile.
Last star of night that lingerest yet
In that long rift of rainy gray,
Gather thy wasted splendors, set,
And die into my wedding day.





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