MARY AND MILDRED.

One morning, after Church, I walk'd

Alone with Mary on the lawn,

And felt myself, howe'er we talk'd,

To grave themes delicately drawn.

When she, delighted, found I knew

More of her peace than she supposed,

Our confidences heavenwards grew,

Like fox-glove buds, in pairs disclosed.

Our former faults did we confess,

Our ancient feud was more than heal'd,

And, with the woman's eagerness

For amity full-sign'd and seal'd,

She, offering up for sacrifice

Her heart's reserve, brought out to show

Some verses, made when she was ice

To all but Heaven, six years ago;

Since happier grown! I took and read

The neat-writ lines. She, void of guile,

Too late repenting, blush'd, and said,

I must not think about the style.

‘ Day after day, until to-day,

Imaged the others gone before,

The same dull task, the weary way,

The weakness pardon'd o'er and o'er,

‘ The thwarted thirst, too faintly felt,

For joy's well-nigh forgotten life,

The restless heart, which, when I knelt,

Made of my worship barren strife.

‘ Ah, whence to-day's so sweet release,

This clearance light of all my care,

This conscience free, this fertile peace,

These softly folded wings of prayer,

‘ This calm and more than conquering love,

With which nought evil dares to cope,

This joy that lifts no glance above,

For faith too sure, too sweet for hope?

‘ O, happy time, too happy change,

It will not live, though fondly nurst!

Full soon the sun will seem as strange

As now the cloud which seems dispersed.’

She from a rose-tree shook the blight;

And well she knew that I knew well

Her grace with silence to requite;

And, answering now the luncheon bell,

I laugh'd at Mildred's laugh, which made

All melancholy wrong, its mood

Such sweet self-confidence display'd,

So glad a sense of present good.

I laugh'd and sigh'd: for I confess

I never went to Ball, or Fete,

Or Show, but in pursuit express

Of my predestinated mate;

And thus to me, who had in sight

The happy chance upon the cards,

Each beauty blossom'd in the light

Of tender personal regards;

And, in the records of my breast,

Red-letter'd, eminently fair,

Stood sixteen, who, beyond the rest,

By turns till then had been my care:

At Berlin three, one at St. Cloud,

At Chatteris, near Cambridge, one,

At Ely four, in London two,

Two at Bowness, in Paris none,

And, last and best, in Sarum three;

But dearest of the whole fair troop,

In judgment of the moment, she

Whose daisy eyes had learn'd to droop.

Her very faults my fancy fired;

My loving will, so thwarted, grew;

And, bent on worship, I admired

Whate'er she was, with partial view.

And yet when, as to-day, her smile

Was prettiest, I could not but note

Honoria, less admired the while,

Was lovelier, though from love remote.

CANTO III.— Honoria