From every music-burdened bowl
Poured the last drop, and brought the end!



VIII.

The chapel's chime fell slow and soft,
And throngs slow-marching to its knoll
From village home and distant croft,
With careful feet and reverent soul
Pressed toward the open door, but oft

Turned curious and expectant eyes
Upon the Manse that stood apart.
There in her quiet, bridal guise
Fair Mildred sat with shrinking heart;
While Philip, bold and over wise,

And knowing naught of woman's ways,
Smiled at her fears, and could not guess
How one so armored in his praise,
And strong in native loveliness,
Could dread to meet his people's gaze.

He could not know her fine alarm
When at his manly side she stood,
And, leaning faintly on his arm--
A dainty slip of womanhood--
Walked forth where every girlish charm