Thus, for three months, with terrors rife,
The pending of her precious life

I watch'd o'er; and the danger, at last,
The kind physician said, was past.
Howbeit, for seven harsh weeks, the East
Breathed witheringly, and Spring's growth ceased.
And so she only did not die;

Until the bright and blighting sky
Changed into cloud, and the sick flowers
Remember'd their perfumes, and showers
Of warm, small rain refreshing flew
Before the South, and the Park grew,
In three nights, thick with green. Then she
Revived no less than flower and tree,
In the mild air, and the fourth day
Look'd supernaturally gay

With large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone,
The while I tied her bonnet on,

So that I led her to the glass

And bade her see how fair she was,
And how love visibly could shine.
Profuse of her's, desiring mine,

And mindful I had loved her most
When beauty seem'd a vanish'd boast,
She laugh'd. I press'd her then to me,
Nothing but soft humility;

Nor e'er enhanced she with such charms
Her acquiescence in my arms.

And, by her sweet love-weakness made
Courageous, powerful, and glad,

In the superiority

Of heavenly affection I

Perceived that perfect love was all

The same as to be rational,

And that the mind and heart thereof,
Which think they cannot do enough,
Are truly the everlasting doors

Wherethrough, all unpetition'd, pours
The eternal pleasaunce.

Wherefore we

Had innermost tranquillity,

And breathed one life with such a sense

Of friendship and of confidence

That, recollecting the sure word,

"If two of you are in accord,

"On earth, as touching any boon

"Which ye shall ask, it shall be done

"In heaven," we asked that heaven's bliss

Might ne'er be any less than this;

And, for that hour, we seem'd to have
The secret of the joy we gave.

How sing of such things save to her,
Love's self, so love's interpreter !
How read from such a homely page

MY DEAREST AUNT, the Wedding-day,
But for Jane's loss, and you away,
Was all a Bride from heaven could beg!
Skies, bluer than the sparrow's egg,
And clearer than the cuckoo's call;
And such a sun, the flowers all
With double ardour seem'd to blow!
The very daisies were a show,
Expanded with uncommon pride,
Like little pictures of the Bride.

Your Great-niece and your Grandson were Perfection of a pretty pair.

John, as from church they came away,
Seem'd finest part of the fine day;
And Emily, having sign'd the bond
By her, sweet Innocence, unconn'd,
Look'd thenceforth, did she smile or weep,
Like Love's self walking in his sleep.

How well Honoria's girls turn out,
Although they never go about!
Dear me, what trouble and expense
It took to give mine confidence.

Hers greet mankind, as I've heard say

That wild things do, where beasts of prey

Were never known, nor any men

Have met their fearless eyes till then.
Their grave, inquiring trust to find
All creatures of their simple kind
Quite disconcerts bold coxcombry,
And makes less perfect candour shy.
Bred to their parents' courtly style,

Is lost; and flatteries less sincere
And authorised than theirs, they hear
Unmoved, like solemn little queens,
Nor even wonder what it means.

Our Bride was never once from home!
So, when John carries her to Rome,
Thereafter she will have a dim

Idea that Rome is part of him!

Of course he knows that! Folks may scoff,
But how your home-kept girls go off!
Young men, I do find more and more,
Are not the fools we take them for;
And Hymen hastens to unband

The waist that ne'er felt waltzer's hand.
At last I see my Sister's right,
And I've told Maude, this very night,
(But oh, my daughters have such wills!)
To knit, and only dance quadrilles.

You say Fred never writes to you
Frankly, as once he used to do,
About himself, and you complain
He shared with none his grief for Jane.
Ah, dear Aunt, that's the way with men.
I've often noticed it! But then
It all comes of the foolish fright
They're in at the word, hypocrite.
Sooner than inconsistent seem,

I've heard a young male Saint blaspheme!
And though, when first in love, sometimes
They rave in letters, talk, and rhymes,
When once they find, as find they must,
How hard 'tis to be hourly just

To those they love, they are dumb for shame,
Where we, you see, rave on the same.
And his reserve, perhaps, is none
The less that Jane is dead and gone.
Honoria, to whose heart alone
He seems to open all his own,
At times has tears in her kind eyes
After their private colloquies.

I should have fancied, but for this,
That time had heal'd that grief of his.
Frederick's was not a lively way
Ever, but ne'er more nearly gay.
The Vaughans have had his children here
The best part of the mourning-year,
And he comes with them, when he can.

I think I never knew a man

So popular! Howbeit he moves
My spleen by his impartial loves.
He's happy from some inner spring,
Depending not on anything.
Petting our Polly, none e'er smiled

"He

Yet, playing with his own, it is
With smiles as if it were not his!
He means to go again to sea,
Now that the wedding's over.
"And his two babies can't be nurst
"Of course for ever at the Hurst,"
He says to Vaughan, (who, all his life,
Has loved the lovers of his wife ;)
And, having been so used to roam,
He finds that, by himself, at home
There's scarcely space to breathe.
After the finished honeymoon,
He'll give to Emily and John
The little ones to practise on;
And major-domo Mrs. Rouse,

Then, soon

A dear old soul from Ashfield House,
Will scold the housemaids and the cook,
Till Emily has learn'd to look

A little braver than a lamb
Surprised by dogs without its dam!

Do, dear Aunt, use your influence,
And try to put some good plain sense
Into my sister Mary, who

I hear intends to visit you

This Autumn. 'Tis not yet too late
To make her change her chosen state
Of single foolishness. In truth,
I fancy that, with fading youth,
Her own will wavers! Yesterday,
Though, till the Bride was gone away,
Joy shone from Mary's loving heart,
I found her afterwards apart,
Hysterically sobbing: I

Knew much too well to ask her why.
This marrying of Nieces daunts
The bravest souls of Maiden Aunts.
Though sister's children often blend
Sweetly the bonds of Child and Friend,
They are but reeds to rest upon.
When Emily comes back with John,
Her right to go downstairs before
Aunt Mary will but be the more
Observed if kindly waived, and how
Shall these be as they were, when now
Niece has her John, and Aunt the sense
Of her superior innocence!

Somehow, all loves, however fond,
Prove lieges of the nuptial bond;
And she who dares at this to scoff,
Finds all the rest, in time, drop off;
While marriage, like a mushroom-ring,
Spreads its sure circle every Spring.

She twice refused George Vane, you know; Yet, when he died three years ago

In the Indian war, she put on grey,
And wears no colours to this day.
And she it is who charges me,
Dear Aunt, with inconsistency!

You heard we lost poor Mr. Vere.
Mary's pet Parson now is here,
Who preaches, morn and evening too,
On worldliness, towards my pew.

I daren't think "Nonsense!" though I've tried,
Because the Devil's on his side.

Now dear Papa goes murmuring on,

"Love one another!" like Saint John. What happens if we disobey

He will not positively say;

Which leaves, you see, the advantage quite
With him who puts one in a fright.

VIII.-LADY CLITHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM.
LADY

My dearest Niece, I'm glad to hear
The scenery's fine at Windermere,
And charm'd a six-weeks' wife defers
In the least to wisdom not yet hers.
But, Child, I've no advice to give!
Rules do but make it hard to live.
And where's the good of having been
Well-taught from seven to seventeen,
If, married, you may not leave off
At last, and say, "I'm good enough!"
Neglect your mind! Folly's to that,
What, to the figure, is the fat.
We know, however wise by rule,
Woman is still by nature fool;
And men have sense to like her all

The more when she is natural.

'Tis true that, if we choose, we can Mock to a miracle the man ;

But iron in the fire red-hot,

Though 'tis the heat, the fire 'tis not.

And who, for a mere sham, would pledge
The babe's and woman's privilege:
No duties and a thousand rights?
Besides, defect love's flow incites,
As water in a well will come

Only the while 'tis drawn therefrom.

"Point de culte sans mystère," you say, "And what if that should die away?" Child, never fear that either could Pull from Saint Cupid's face the hood! The follies natural to each

Surpass the other's mental reach.

Just think how men, with sword and gun,

Will really fight, and never run;