THE ROSY BOSOM'D HOURS.

A florin to the willing Guard

Secured, for half the way,

( He lock'd us in, ah, lucky-starr'd,)

A curtain'd, front coupe.

The sparkling sun of August shone;

The wind was in the West;

Your gown and all that you had on

Was what became you best;

And we were in that seldom mood

When soul with soul agrees,

Mingling, like flood with equal flood,

In agitated ease.

Far round, each blade of harvest bare

Its little load of bread;

Each furlong of that journey fair

With separate sweetness sped.

The calm of use was coming o'er

The wonder of our wealth,

And now, maybe,‘ twas not much more

Than Eden's common health.

We paced the sunny platform, while

The train at Havant changed:

What made the people kindly smile,

Or stare with looks estranged?

Too radiant for a wife you seem'd,

Serener than a bride;

Me happiest born of men I deem'd,

And show'd perchance my pride.

I loved that girl, so gaunt and tall,

Who whispered loud,‘ Sweet Thing!’

Scanning your figure, slight yet all

Round as your own gold ring.

At Salisbury you stray'd alone

Within the shafted glooms,

Whilst I was by the Verger shown

The brasses and the tombs.

At tea we talk'd of matters deep,

Of joy that never dies;

We laugh'd, till love was mix'd with sleep

Within your great sweet eyes.

The next day, sweet with luck no less

And sense of sweetness past,

The full tide of our happiness

Rose higher than the last.

At Dawlish,‘ mid the pools of brine,

You stept from rock to rock,

One hand quick tightening upon mine,

One holding up your frock.

On starfish and on weeds alone

You seem'd intent to be:

Flash'd those great gleams of hope unknown

From you, or from the sea?

Ne'er came before, ah, when again

Shall come two days like these:

Such quick delight within the brain,

Within the heart such peace?

I thought, indeed, by magic chance,

A third from Heaven to win,

But as, at dusk, we reach'd Penzance,

A drizzling rain set in.