ACCEPTED.

What fortune did my heart foretell? What shook my spirit, as I woke, Like the vibration of a bell Of which I had not heard the stroke?

Was it some happy vision shut From memory by the sun's fresh ray? Was it that linnet's song; or but A natural gratitude for day?

Or the mere joy the senses weave, A wayward ecstasy of life? Then I remember'd, yester-eve I won Honoria for my Wife.

Forth riding, while as yet the day Was dewy, watching Sarum Spire, Still beckoning me along my way, And growing every minute higher,

I reach'd the Dean's. One blind was down, Though nine then struck. My bride to be! And had she rested ill, my own, With thinking ( oh, my heart! ) of me?

I paced the streets; a pistol chose, To guard my now important life When riding late from Sarum Close; At noon return'd. Good Mrs. Fife,

To my,‘ The Dean, is he at home?’ Said,‘ No, sir; but Miss Honor is;’ And straight, not asking if I'd come, Announced me,‘ Mr. Felix, Miss,’

To Mildred, in the Study. There We talk'd, she working. We agreed The day was fine; the Fancy-Fair Successful;‘ Did I ever read

De Genlis?’‘ Never.’‘ Do! She heard I was engaged.’‘ To whom?’‘ Miss Fry Was it the fact?’‘ No!’‘ On my word?’ ‘ What scandal people talk'd!’‘ Would I

Hold out this skein of silk.’ So pass'd I knew not how much time away. ‘ How were her sisters?’‘ Well.’ At last I summon'd heart enough to say,

‘ I hoped to have seen Miss Churchill too.’ ‘ Miss Churchill, Felix! What is this? I said, and now I find‘ tis true, Last night you quarrell'd! Here she is.’

She came, and seem'd a morning rose When ruffling rain has paled its blush; Her crown once more was on her brows; And, with a faint, indignant flush,

And fainter smile, she gave her hand, But not her eyes, then sate apart, As if to make me understand The honour of her vanquish'd heart.

But I drew humbly to her side; And she, well pleased, perceiving me Liege ever to the noble pride Of her unconquer'd majesty,

Once and for all put it away; The faint flush pass'd; and, thereupon, Her loveliness, which rather lay In light than colour, smiled and shone,

Till sick was all my soul with bliss; Or was it with remorse and ire Of such a sanctity as this Subdued by love to my desire?