THE dreamy earth is flooded o'er
With warm and hazy light,
September's latest boon, before
She feels the hoar frost in the night;
And, pausing with a sober frown,
Nips the first floweret from her summer crown.

But who are these upon the rising ground
Where the old graveyard guards the vale,
Who talk in whispers clustering round
The old stone church, where teams are found
With horses tethered to the rail,
And village lads and farmers at the gate?
Surely some funeral of state;—
So reverently they stand without a sound,
So decently they wait.

And now the organ mutters and a hymn
Floats in the elmtops. From the doors thrown wide,
Issue, as radiant as the seraphim,
A handsome lad in khaki and his bride.
And next behind the happy pair
The Captain-cousin and best man
Walks with a martial, business air,
Heading the merry-moving van
Of half-grown girls with ribboned hair,—
Brides-maids or sisters,—and a few
Odd, wholesome, savage boys;
(And if a waistcoat is askew
A mother adds a touch or two
To give the victim equipoise).

Neighbors mingle, chat and pass,
The father proud, the adoring friend,
The Dominie, the farmer's lass,—
The village life from end to end,—
With happiness on every face.
And something sacred and benign
Out of these faces seem to shine:
Some god is in the place!

Methinks I see him! One we used to know
Ere sorrow overspread the land,—
The god we met on every hand
And worshipped long ago.
Ah, mark him, there before the rest!
The youngster in the azure vest
And tunic white as snow.
See the late, tiny rosebuds round his brow!
Their ardent breath is whispering his name,
See on his forehead the clear pointed flame;
While from his torch the sparklets blow
Kindling all hearts that follow in his train.
It's Hymen, Hymen, Hymen, come again!