IX. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM.
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y dearest Aunt, the Wedding-day,But for Jane's loss, and you away,Was all a Bride from heaven could begSkies bluer than the sparrow's egg.And clearer than the cuckoo's call;And such a sun! the flowers allWith 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 werePerfection of a pretty pair.How well Honoria's girls turn out,Although they never go about!Dear me, what trouble and expenseIt took to teach mine confidence!_Hers_ greet mankind as I've heard sayThat wild things do, where beasts of preyWere never known, nor any menHave met their fearless eyes till then.Their grave, inquiring trust to findAll creatures of their simple kindQuite 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 unbandThe 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 youFrankly, as once he used to do,About himself; and you complainHe shared with none his grief for Jane.It all comes of the foolish frightMen feel at the word, hypocrite.Although, when first in love, sometimesThey rave in letters, talk, and rhymes,When once they find, as find they must,How hard 'tis to be hourly justTo those they love, they are dumb for shame,Where we, you see, talk on the same.Honoria, to whose heart aloneHe seems to open all his ownAt times, has tears in her kind eyes,After their private colloquies.He's her most favour'd guest, and movesMy spleen by his impartial loves.His pleasure has some inner springDepending not on anything.Petting our Polly, none e'er smiledMore fondly on his favourite child;Yet, playing with his own, it isSomehow as if it were not his.He means to go again to sea,Now that the wedding's over. HeWill leave to Emily and JohnThe 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 lookA little braver than a lambSurprised by dogs without its dam!Do, dear Aunt, use your influence,And try to teach some plain good senseTo Mary. 'Tis not yet too lateTo make her change her chosen stateOf 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. IKnew much too well to ask her why.This marrying of Nieces dauntsThe bravest souls of maiden Aunts.Though Sisters' children often blendSweetly the bonds of child and friend,They are but reeds to rest upon.When Emily comes back with John,Her right to go downstairs beforeAunt Mary will but be the moreObserved if kindly waived, and howShall these be as they were, when nowNiece has her John, and Aunt the senseOf 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 agoIn 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!'
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