MARY AND MILDRED.

One morning, after Church, I walk'd Alone with Mary on the lawn, And felt myself, howe'er we talk'd, To grave themes delicately drawn.

When she, delighted, found I knew More 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 eagerness For amity full-sign'd and seal'd,

She, offering up for sacrifice Her heart's reserve, brought out to show Some verses, made when she was ice To all but Heaven, six years ago;

Since happier grown! I took and read The neat-writ lines. She, void of guile, Too late repenting, blush'd, and said, I must not think about the style.

‘ 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 strange As now the cloud which seems dispersed.’

She from a rose-tree shook the blight; And well she knew that I knew well Her grace with silence to requite; And, answering now the luncheon bell,

I laugh'd at Mildred's laugh, which made All melancholy wrong, its mood Such sweet self-confidence display'd, So glad a sense of present good.

I laugh'd and sigh'd: for I confess I never went to Ball, or Fete, Or Show, but in pursuit express Of my predestinated mate;

And thus to me, who had in sight The happy chance upon the cards, Each beauty blossom'd in the light Of 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, she Whose daisy eyes had learn'd to droop.

Her very faults my fancy fired; My loving will, so thwarted, grew; And, bent on worship, I admired Whate'er she was, with partial view.

And yet when, as to-day, her smile Was prettiest, I could not but note Honoria, less admired the while, Was lovelier, though from love remote.

CANTO III.— Honoria