MARY AND MILDRED.
80 lines✦
One morning, after Church, I walk’dAlone with Mary on the lawn,And felt myself, howe’er we talk’d,To grave themes delicately drawn.When she, delighted, found I knewMore 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 eagernessFor amity full-sign’d and seal’d,She, offering up for sacrificeHer heart’s reserve, brought out to showSome verses, made when she was iceTo all but Heaven, six years ago;Since happier grown! I took and readThe neat-writ lines. She, void of guile,Too late repenting, blush’d, and said,I must not think about the style. 2 ‘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 strangeAs now the cloud which seems dispersed.’ 3 She from a rose-tree shook the blight;And well she knew that I knew wellHer grace with silence to requite;And, answering now the luncheon bell,I laugh’d at Mildred’s laugh, which madeAll melancholy wrong, its moodSuch sweet self-confidence display’d,So glad a sense of present good. 4 I laugh’d and sigh’d: for I confessI never went to Ball, or Fête,Or Show, but in pursuit expressOf my predestinated mate;And thus to me, who had in sightThe happy chance upon the cards,Each beauty blossom’d in the lightOf 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, sheWhose daisy eyes had learn’d to droop.Her very faults my fancy fired;My loving will, so thwarted, grew;And, bent on worship, I admiredWhate’er she was, with partial view.And yet when, as to-day, her smileWas prettiest, I could not but noteHonoria, less admired the while,Was lovelier, though from love remote.
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