To My Future Bride

O unknown being! thou whom long my soul has sought,
Vision of fancy bright, thou mild and lovely queen!
Thou, vainly, long, pursued by my impatient thought,
Thou pure divinity unseen!

O tell me in what mist thou veil’st thy shadowy form!
O tell me where thy steps have left their wonted trace!
For in hope’s sunshine hour, and in grief’s frowning storm,
I feel thou art my resting place.

When I my civic post, or social circle fill,
And with th’ infirm and poor my narrow portion share,
The widows’ sorrows soothe, the orphans’ murmuring still,
I know, sweet spirit! thou art there.

When fancy takes her flight beyond terrestrial things,
And towers above all space, and leaves behind all time;
And up to holiest stars of thought’s creation springs,
Thou art her brightest dream sublime.

Once, in the moonlight’s shade, I saw thee, angel! stand,
(Bent o’er a marble urn, whose waters gently swell’d)
Clad in celestial white, bound with an azure band,
A heavenly lyre thy fingers held.

And once, amidst a crowd, bright tears hung on thine eye,
Thy head sunk on thy breast, devotion seem’d t’ engross
Thy thoughts, and kneeling, thou pray’dst heaven in ecstasy,
Pressing the consecrated cross.

I saw thee, angel-like, through yonder temple glide,
Scattering thy light around like some ray-crested saint,
Whispering sweet notes of peace, in the still eventide,
To many a pilgrim tired and faint.

I love to paint thee when thy bounty’s generous store
Soothes the gray beggar’s wants, and comforts the distrest,
Anoints the sick with oil, provides with bread the poor,
And for the houseless finds a rest.

And O! how blest, to dream that thou may’st yet be mine,
A very dove of peace, around my steps to hie,
Waking from thy sweet lyre a melody divine,
Gay as a summer butterfly.

And when upon the wave, midst twilight’s peaceful gleam,
I launch my little bark, wilt thou sit smiling by,
And with thy lovely hand conduct it o’er the stream,
And rule my blessed destiny;

And listen to my tale of fond and passionate love:
Not, like a ghost, as now, but holding in thy hand
A golden lamp; nor e’er seek thy own shrine above,
But throw aside thy misty band.

My guardian spirit, hail! unveil thee in thy bloom,
For thou art lovelier far than feeble poet’s art;
Come in thy virtues now--in all thy glory come,
And fill the vacuum of my heart.