THE QUEEN'S ROOM.

There's nothing happier than the days

In which young Love makes every thought

Pure as a bride's blush, when she says

‘ I will’ unto she knows not what;

And lovers, on the love-lit globe,

For love's sweet sake, walk yet aloof,

And hear Time weave the marriage-robe,

Attraction warp and reverence woof.

My Housekeeper, my Nurse of yore,

Cried, as the latest carriage went,

‘ Well, Mr, Felix, Sir, I'm sure

The morning's gone off excellent!

I never saw the show to pass

The ladies, in their fine fresh gowns,

So sweetly dancing on the grass,

To music with its ups and downs.

We'd such work, Sir, to clean the plate;

‘ Twas just the busy times of old.

The Queen's Room, Sir, look'd quite like state.

Miss Smythe, when she went up, made bold

To peep into the Rose Boudoir,

And cried, “How charming! all quite new;”

And wonder'd who it could be for.

All but Miss Honor look'd in too.

But she's too proud to peep and pry.

None's like that sweet Miss Honor, Sir!

Excuse my humbleness, but I

Pray Heav'n you'll get a wife like her!

The Poor love dear Miss Honor's ways

Better than money. Mrs. Rouse,

Who ought to know a lady, says

No finer goes to Wilton House.

Miss Bagshaw thought that dreary room

Had kill'd old Mrs. Vaughan with fright;

She would not sleep in such a tomb

For all her host was worth a night!

Miss Fry, Sir, laugh'd; they talk'd the rest

In French; and French Sir's Greek to me;

But, though they smiled, and seem'd to jest,

No love was lost, for I could see

How serious-like Miss Honor was —’

‘ Well, Nurse, this is not my affair.

The ladies talk'd in French with cause.

Good-day; and thank you for your prayer.’

I loiter'd through the vacant house,

Soon to be her's; in one room stay'd,

Of old my mother's. Here my vows

Of endless thanks were oftenest paid.

This room its first condition kept;

For, on her road to Sarum Town,

Therein an English Queen had slept,

Before the Hurst was half pull'd down.

The pictured walls the place became:

Here ran the Brook Anaurus, where

Stout Jason bore the wrinkled dame

Whom serving changed to Juno; there,

Ixion's selfish hope, instead

Of the nuptial goddess, clasp'd a cloud;

And, here, translated Psyche fed

Her gaze on Love, not disallow'd.

And in this chamber had she been,

And into that she would not look,

My Joy, my Vanity, my Queen,

At whose dear name my pulses shook!

To others how express at all

My worship in that joyful shrine?

I scarcely can myself recall

What peace and ardour then were mine;

And how more sweet than aught below,

The daylight and its duties done,

It felt to fold the hands, and so

Relinquish all regards but one;

To see her features in the dark,

To lie and meditate once more

The grace I did not fully mark,

The tone I had not heard before;

And from my pillow then to take

Her notes, her picture, and her glove,

Put there for joy when I should wake,

And press them to the heart of love;

And then to whisper‘ Wife!’ and pray

To live so long as not to miss

That unimaginable day

Which farther seems the nearer‘ tis;

And still from joy's unfathom'd well

To drink, in dreams, while on her brows

Of innocence ineffable

Blossom'd the laughing bridal rose.