THE WEDDING-DAY
Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of
purple and scarlet,
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments
resplendent,
Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his
forehead,
Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates.
Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor
beneath him
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his
feet was a laver!
This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan
maiden.
Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate
also
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like
the Law and the Gospel,
One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing
of heaven.
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth
and of Boaz.
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words
of betrothal,
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s
presence,
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of
Holland.
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder
of Plymouth
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded
that day in affection,
Speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine
benedictions.
Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared
on the threshold,
Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure!
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange
apparition?
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on
his shoulder?
Is it a phantom of air,—a bodiless, spectral
illusion?
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid
the betrothal?
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited,
unwelcomed;
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an
expression
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden
beneath them,
As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud
Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its
brightness.
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but
was silent,
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention.
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the
last benediction,
Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with
amazement
Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain
of Plymouth!
Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with
emotion, “Forgive me!
I have been angry and hurt,—too long have
I cherished the feeling;
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it
is ended.
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins
of Hugh Standish,
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning
for error.
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend
of John Alden.”
Thereupon answered the bridegroom: “Let
all be forgotten between us,—
All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall
grow older and dearer!”
Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla,
Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry
in England,
Something of camp and of court, of town and of country,
commingled,
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding
her husband.
Then he said with a smile: “I should have
remembered the adage,—
If you would be well served, you must serve yourself;
and moreover,
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of
Christmas!”
Great was the people’s amazement, and greater
yet their rejoicing,
Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their
Captain,
Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and
crowded about him,
Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride
and of bridegroom,
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting
the other,
Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered
and bewildered,
He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment,
Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been
invited.
Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with
the bride at the doorway,
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful
morning.
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in
the sunshine,
Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation;
There were the graves of the dead, and the barren
waste of the sea-shore,
There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and
the meadows;
But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden
of Eden,
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the
sound of the ocean.
Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and
stir of departure,
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient
of longer delaying,
Each with his plan for the day, and the work that
was left uncompleted.
Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations
of wonder,
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud
of Priscilla,
Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand
of its master,
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its
nostrils,
Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for
a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and
heat of the noonday;
Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along
like a peasant.
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others,
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand
of her husband,
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.
“Nothing is wanting now,” he said with
a smile, “but the distaff;
Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful
Bertha!”
Onward the bridal procession now moved to their
new habitation,
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the
ford in the forest,
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of
love through its bosom,
Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths
of the azure abysses.
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring
his splendors,
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above
them suspended,
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the
pine and the fir-tree,
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley
of Eshcol.
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral
ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca
and Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession
of lovers,
So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal
procession.
