The Bridal Pair
He
THOUGH the roving bee as lightly
Sip the sweets of thyme and clover,
Though the moon of May as whitely
Silver all the greensward over,
Yet, beneath the trysting tree,
That hath been which shall not be!
She
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetly
With the honey-dew of pleasure,
Trip the dancers ne’er so featly
Through the old remembered measure,
Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,
What is lost shall not be found!
William Young.