IX. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM.

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.

How well Honoria's girls turn out,

Although they never go about!

Dear me, what trouble and expense

It took to teach 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.

Ah, Mrs. Graham! people may scoff,

But how your home-kept girls go off!

How 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 Maud 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.

It all comes of the foolish fright

Men feel at the word, hypocrite.

Although, 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, talk on the same.

Honoria, to whose heart alone

He seems to open all his own

At times, has tears in her kind eyes,

After their private colloquies.

He's her most favour'd guest, and moves

My spleen by his impartial loves.

His pleasure has some inner spring

Depending not on anything.

Petting our Polly, none e'er smiled

More fondly on his favourite child;

Yet, playing with his own, it is

Somehow as if it were not his.

He means to go again to sea,

Now that the wedding's over. He

Will leave to Emily and John

The little ones to practise on;

And Major-domo, Mrs. Rouse,

A dear old soul from Wilton 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 teach some plain good sense

To Mary.‘ Tis not yet too late

To make her change her chosen state

Of single silliness. In truth,

I fancy that, with fading youth,

Her will now 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 Sisters’ 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 be died three years ago

In the Indian war, she put on gray,

And wears no colours to this day.

And she it is who charges me,

Dear Aunt, with‘ inconsistency!’