O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet Life’s longest path have trod, Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet The dearer love of God,— The sacred myrtle wreathes again Thine altar, as of old; And what was green with summer then, Is mellowed, now, to gold. Not now, as then, the Future’s face Is flushed with fancy’s light; But Memory, with a milder grace, Shall rule the feast to-night. Blest was the sun of joy that shone, Nor less the blinding shower— The bud of fifty years agone Is Love’s perfected flower. O Memory, ope thy mystic door! O dream of youth, return! And let the lights that gleamed of yore Beside this altar burn! The past is plain; ’t was Love designed E’en Sorrow’s iron chain, And Mercy’s shining thread has twined With the dark warp of Pain. So be it still. O thou who hast That younger bridal blest, Till the May-morn of love has passed To evening’s golden west, Come to this later Cana, Lord, And, at thy touch divine, The water of that earlier board To-night shall turn to wine.
The Golden Wedding
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