Drew off his royal signet-ring:
"This in its place shall be,
And ere I take it back thou shalt
Have power o'er it and me."
But hark! a jaded messenger—
"Prince, take thy horse, and speed;
Thy subjects beat thy palace-gates,
By daring rebels led!"
"Go on, good priest; hence, two for one
Shall their allegiance crave;
I shall but make the firmer fight
For having her to save."
Another comes: "Thy mother, Prince,
Upon her death-bed lies,
And bids thee, by thy duty haste,
To close in peace her eyes."
A moment's wavering, then: "Of thee
My mother loved to hear;
Thou shall be mine, no news so sweet
Could fill her closing ear."
They stood beneath the mistletoe,
But, ere the words were said,
A spray, empearl'd with shining drops,
Fell soft on Mabel's head.
"An omen ill; some evil elf
Doth watch the marriage hour!"
"Not evil!" cried the poet-Prince,
For this is Nature's dower.
"Say, was it made thus beautiful
To gift an evil race?
I know no purer wreath, and this
My bride's fair head shall grace."
He bound it on; "For every drop
Some blessing hasten here!"
Light voices, as of flower-bells,
He thought went past his ear.
The rite is done, the first kiss won,
The young wife's blush and smile
Are quench'd by the heart-sinking words,
"I leave thee yet awhile.
"The land's true servant, I must go
To keep its peace for thee,
And ere she dies my mother's eyes
Must surely rest on me.
"Too swift a journey for thy strength,
Dawn sees me back again,
I leave thee in thy father's care,
A precious trust till then."
Then Mabel, in her bower alone,
Sat low before the fire;
With that supporting presence gone,
Felt Hope's bright ray expire.
The thought would come, "Ah! my lost face
He would have longed to show,
But from his mother e'en his love
Doth make him hide me now.
"O! I was wrong, and doubly wrong,
Thus God's good gift to dull,
And well I know his poet-soul
Doth love the beautiful!"
Then up from the repentant heart
Swelled the deep voice of prayer,
And then for him broke o'er her head,
The wife's first wave of care.
But loud the solemn hour of twelve
Was told upon the bell.
A deep delicious drowsiness
Upon her senses fell.
Touched by transparent hands and fanned
By wings of gossamer,
While all soft sounds made lullaby
Most musically clear.
Now, tinkling like a tiny rill,
Now, like the air's low sigh,
The leafy flutter now like nought
But its own melody.
"Quick to your work!" the Oak-elf cried,
"And first my gentle queen,
Whose well-dropped wreath secures the spell
That makes her ours, I ween."
Then over Mabel's sleeping face
She spread her wings of light,
And softly rounded neck and brow,
And turned them lily-white.
Wild-briar sprites upon her cheek
Made flower-like beauty blow,
He of the Holly gave her lips
His own rich scarlet glow.
A deep hue from the haunting fay
About the violet wreath,
Dropped dewily on the blue eyes
The waxen lids beneath.
Luxuriant curled her hair, it was
The Ivy-spirit's spell:
Where drops of gold from twinkling hands,
Like gathered sunshine fell.
On ev'ry feature fingers pure
Ethereal touches made,
And on her face the changeful charm
Of dimpling water laid.
All Nature's freshness, life, and glow,
The grace unspeakable,
The essence of her loveliness,
Was poured into the spell.
The mighty Oak-elf did bestow
Clear laugh and blithesome mien,
The maiden passion for the woods
He deepened in the queen.
The laurel, 'mid his wealth of green,
Had nought for Woman's name,
But garlands grand for Kenric's head,
And that was still the same.
And for her minstrel's brows the Bay
Had many a verdant crown,
Yea, for his sake, some tender shoots
Should twine about her own.
"Now merry Christmas, lady sweet,
The cocks are crowing shrill!"
The busy murmur ceased again,
The spirit-world was still.
Amid a blush of light that stole
The crimson hangings through,
Slept Mabel, spiritually fair,
A flower new-dipt in dew.
But with an overflowing heart,
Woke to her husband's kiss
And bending o'er her his dark eyes
Rained down ecstatic bliss.