The Angel in the House

CANTO II

The Course of True Love

PRELUDES

IThe Changed AllegianceWatch how a bird, that captived sings,   The cage set open, first looks out,Yet fears the freedom of his wings,   And now withdraws, and flits about,And now looks forth again; until,   Grown bold, he hops on stool and chair,And now attains the window-sill,   And now confides himself to air.The maiden so, from love’s free sky   In chaste and prudent counsels caged,But longing to be loosen’d by   Her suitor’s faith declared and gaged,When blest with that release desired,   First doubts if truly she is free,Then pauses, restlessly retired,   Alarm’d at too much liberty;But soon, remembering all her debt   To plighted passion, gets by roteHer duty; says, ‘I love him!’ yet   The thought half chokes her in her throat;And, like that fatal ‘I am thine,’   Comes with alternate gush and checkAnd joltings of the heart, as wine   Pour’d from a flask of narrow neck.Is he indeed her choice?  She fears   Her Yes was rashly said, and shame,Remorse and ineffectual tears   Revolt from has conceded claim.Oh, treason!  So, with desperate nerve,   She cries, ‘I am in love, am his;’Lets run the cables of reserve,   And floats into a sea of bliss,And laughs to think of her alarm,   Avows she was in love before,Though has avowal was the charm   Which open’d to her own the door.She loves him for his mastering air,   Whence, Parthian-like, she slaying flies;His flattering look, which seems to wear   Her loveliness in manly eyes;His smile, which, by reverse, portends   An awful wrath, should reason stir;(How fortunate it is they’re friends,   And he will ne’er be wroth with her!)His power to do or guard from harm;   If he but chose to use it half,And catch her up in one strong arm,   What could she do but weep, or laugh!His words, which still instruct, but so   That this applause seems still implied,‘How wise in all she ought to know,   How ignorant of all beside!’His skilful suit, which leaves her free,   Gives nothing for the world to name,And keeps her conscience safe, while he,   With half the bliss, takes all the blame;His clear repute with great and small;   The jealousy his choice will stir;But ten times more than ten times all,   She loves him for his love of her.How happy ’tis he seems to see   In her that utter lovelinessWhich she, for his sake, longs to be!   At times, she cannot but confessHer other friends are somewhat blind;   Her parents’ years excuse neglect,But all the rest are scarcely kind,   And brothers grossly want respect;And oft she views what he admires   Within her glass, and sight of thisMakes all the sum of her desires   To be devotion unto his.But still, at first, whatever’s done,   A touch, her hand press’d lightly, sheStands dizzied, shock’d, and flush’d, like one   Set sudden neck-deep in the sea;And, though her bond for endless time   To his good pleasure gives her o’er,The slightest favour seems a crime,   Because it makes her love him more.But that she ne’er will let him know;   For what were love should reverence cease?A thought which makes her reason so   Inscrutable, it seems caprice.With her, as with a desperate town,   Too weak to stand, too proud to treat,The conqueror, though the walls are down,   Has still to capture street by street;But, after that, habitual faith,   Divorced from self, where late ’twas due,Walks nobly in its novel path,   And she’s to changed allegiance true;And prizing what she can’t prevent,   (Right wisdom, often misdeem’d whim),Her will’s indomitably bent   On mere submissiveness to him;To him she’ll cleave, for him forsake   Father’s and mother’s fond command!He is her lord, for he can take   Hold of her faint heart with his hand.IIBeauty‘Beauty deludes.’  O shaft well shot,   To strike the mark’s true opposite!That ugly good is scorn’d proves not   ’Tis beauty lies, but lack of it.By Heaven’s law the Jew might take   A slave to wife, if she was fair;So strong a plea does beauty make   That, where ’tis seen, discretion’s there.If, by a monstrous chance, we learn   That this illustrious vaunt’s a lie,Our minds, by which the eyes discern,   See hideous contrariety.And laugh at Nature’s wanton mood,   Which, thus a swinish thing to flout,Though haply in its gross way good,   Hangs such a jewel in its snout.IIILais and LucretiaDid first his beauty wake her sighs?   That’s Lais!  Thus Lucretia’s known:The beauty in her Lover’s eyes   Was admiration of her own.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

1Oh, beating heart of sweet alarm,   Which stays the lover’s step, when nearHis mistress and her awful charm   Of grace and innocence sincere!I held the half-shut door, and heard   The voice of my betrothed wife,Who sang my verses, every word   By music taught its latent life;With interludes of well-touch’d notes,   That flash’d, surprising and serene,As meteor after meteor floats   The soft, autumnal stars between.There was a passion in her tone,   A tremor when she touch’d the keys,Which told me she was there alone,   And uttering all her soul at ease.I enter’d; for I did not choose   To learn how in her heart I throve,By chance or stealth; beyond her use,   Her greeting flatter’d me with love.2With true love’s treacherous confidence,   And ire, at last to laughter won,She spoke this speech, and mark’d its sense,   By action, as her Aunt had done.3‘“You, with your looks and catching air,   To think of Vaughan!  You fool!  You know,You might, with ordinary care,   Ev’n yet be Lady Clitheroe.You’re sure he’ll do great things some day!   Nonsense, he won’t; he’s dress’d too well.Dines with the Sterling Club, they say;   Not commonly respectable!Half Puritan, half Cavalier!   His curly hair I think’s a wig;And, for his fortune, why my Dear,   ’Tis not enough to keep a gig.Rich Aunts and Uncles never die;   And what you bring won’t do for dress:And so you’ll live on By-and-by,   Within oaten-cake and water-cress!”4‘I cried, but did not let her see.   At last she soften’d her dispraise,On learning you had bought for me   A carriage and a pair of bays.But here she comes!  You take her in   To dinner.  I impose this taskMake her approve my love; and win   What thanks from me you choose to ask!’5‘My niece has told you every word   I said of you!  What may I mean?Of course she has; but you’ve not heard   How I abused you to the Dean;—Yes, I’ll take wine; he’s mad, like her;   And she will have you: there it ends!And, now I’ve done my duty, Sir,   And you’ve shown common-sense, we’re friends!’6‘Go, child, and see him out yourself,’   Aunt Maude said, after tea, ‘and showThe place, upon that upper shelf,   Where Petrarch stands, lent long ago.’7‘These rose-leaves to my heart be press’d,   Honoria, while it aches for you!’(The rose in ruin, from her breast,   Fell, as I took a fond adieu.)‘You must go now, Love!’  ‘See, the air   Is thick with starlight!’  ‘Let me tieThis scarf on.  Oh, your Petrarch!  There!   I’m coming, Aunt!’  ‘Sweet, Sweet!’  ‘Good-bye!’‘Ah, Love, to me ’tis death to part,   Yet you, my sever’d life, smile on!’These “Good-nights,” Felix, break my heart;   I’m only gay till you are gone!’With love’s bright arrows from her eyes,   And balm on her permissive lips,She pass’d, and night was a surprise,   As when the sun at Quito dips.Her beauties were like sunlit snows,   Flush’d but not warm’d with my desire.Oh, how I loved her!  Fiercely glows   In the pure air of frost the fire.Who for a year is sure of fate!   I thought, dishearten’d as I went,Wroth with the Dean, who bade me wait,   And vex’d with her, who seem’d content.Nay, could eternal life afford   That tyranny should thus deductFrom this fair land, which call’d me lord,   A year of the sweet usufruct?It might not and it should not be!   I’d go back now, and he must own,At once, my love’s compulsive plea.   I turn’d, I found the Dean alone.‘Nonsense, my friend; go back to bed!   It’s half-past twelve!’  ‘July, then, Sir!’‘Well, come to-morrow,’ at last he said,   ‘And you may talk of it with her.’A light gleam’d as I pass’d the stair.   A pausing foot, a flash of dress,And a sweet voice.  ‘Is Felix there?’   ‘July, Love!’  ‘Says Papa so?’  ‘Yes!’

CANTO III

The Country Ball

PRELUDES

ILove CeremoniousKeep your undrest, familiar style   For strangers, but respect your friend,Her most, whose matrimonial smile   Is and asks honour without end.’Tis found, and needs it must so be,   That life from love’s allegiance flags,When love forgets his majesty   In sloth’s unceremonious rags.Let love make home a gracious Court;   There let the world’s rude, hasty waysBe fashion’d to a loftier port,   And learn to bow and stand at gaze;And let the sweet respective sphere   Of personal worship there obtainCircumference for moving clear,   None treading on another’s train.This makes that pleasures do not cloy,   And dignifies our mortal strifeWith calmness and considerate joy,   Befitting our immortal life.IIThe RainbowA stately rainbow came and stood,   When I was young, in High-Hurst Park;Its bright feet lit the hill and wood   Beyond, and cloud and sward were dark;And I, who thought the splendour ours   Because the place was, t’wards it flew,And there, amidst the glittering showers,   Gazed vainly for the glorious view.With whatsoever’s lovely, know   It is not ours; stand off to see,Or beauty’s apparition so   Puts on invisibility.IIIA ParadoxTo tryst Love blindfold goes, for fear   He should not see, and eyeless nightHe chooses still for breathing near   Beauty, that lives but in the sight.

THE COUNTY BALL

1Well, Heaven be thank’d my first-love fail’d,   As, Heaven be thank’d, our first-loves do!Thought I, when Fanny past me sail’d,   Loved once, for what I never knew,Unless for colouring in her talk,   When cheeks and merry mouth would showThree roses on a single stalk,   The middle wanting room to blow,And forward ways, that charm’d the boy   Whose love-sick mind, misreading fate,Scarce hoped that any Queen of Joy   Could ever stoop to be his mate.2But there danced she, who from the leaven   Of ill preserv’d my heart and witAll unawares, for she was heaven,   Others at best but fit for it.One of those lovely things she was   In whose least action there can beNothing so transient but it has   An air of immortality.I mark’d her step, with peace elate,   Her brow more beautiful than morn,Her sometime look of girlish state   Which sweetly waived its right to scorn;The giddy crowd, she grave the while,   Although, as ’twere beyond her will,Around her mouth the baby smile   That she was born with linger’d still.Her ball-dress seem’d a breathing mist,   From the fair form exhaled and shed,Raised in the dance with arm and wrist   All warmth and light, unbraceleted.Her motion, feeling ’twas beloved,   The pensive soul of tune express’d,And, oh, what perfume, as she moved,   Came from the flowers in her breast!How sweet a tongue the music had!   ‘Beautiful Girl,’ it seem’d to say,‘Though all the world were vile and sad,   Dance on; let innocence be gay.’Ah, none but I discern’d her looks,   When in the throng she pass’d me by,For love is like a ghost, and brooks   Only the chosen seer’s eye;And who but she could e’er divine   The halo and the happy trance,When her bright arm reposed on mine,   In all the pauses of the dance!3Whilst so her beauty fed my sight,   And whilst I lived in what she said,Accordant airs, like all delight   Most sweet when noted least, were play’d;And was it like the Pharisee   If I in secret bow’d my faceWith joyful thanks that I should be,   Not as were many, but with graceAnd fortune of well-nurtured youth,   And days no sordid pains defile,And thoughts accustom’d to the truth,   Made capable of her fair smile?4Charles Barton follow’d down the stair,   To talk with me about the Ball,And carp at all the people there.   The Churchills chiefly stirr’d his gall:‘Such were the Kriemhilds and Isondes   You storm’d about at Trinity!Nothing at heart but handsome Blondes!   ‘Folk say that you and Fanny Fry—’‘They err!  Good-night!  Here lies my course,   Through Wilton.’  Silence blest my ears,And, weak at heart with vague remorse,   A passing poignancy of tearsAttack’d mine eyes.  By pale and park   I rode, and ever seem’d to see,In the transparent starry dark,   That splendid brow of chastity,That soft and yet subduing light,   At which, as at the sudden moon,I held my breath, and thought ‘how bright!’   That guileless beauty in its noon,Compelling tribute of desires   Ardent as day when Sirius reigns,Pure as the permeating fires   That smoulder in the opal’s veins.

CANTO IV

Love in Idleness

PRELUDES

IHonour and DesertO queen, awake to thy renown,   Require what ’tis our wealth to give,And comprehend and wear the crown   Of thy despised prerogative!I, who in manhood’s name at length   With glad songs come to abdicateThe gross regality of strength,   Must yet in this thy praise abate,That, through thine erring humbleness   And disregard of thy degree,Mainly, has man been so much less   Than fits his fellowship with thee.High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow,   The coward had grasp’d the hero’s sword,The vilest had been great, hadst thou,   Just to thyself, been worth’s reward.But lofty honours undersold   Seller and buyer both disgrace;And favours that make folly bold   Banish the light from virtue’s face.IILove and HonourWhat man with baseness so content,   Or sick with false conceit of right,As not to know that the element   And inmost warmth of love’s delightIs honour?  Who’d not rather kiss   A duchess than a milkmaid, prankThe two in equal grace, which is   Precedent Nature’s obvious rank?Much rather, then, a woman deck’d   With saintly honours, chaste and good,Whose thoughts celestial things affect,   Whose eyes express her heavenly mood!Those lesser vaunts are dimm’d or lost   Which plume her name or paint her lip,Extinct in the deep-glowing boast   Of her angelic fellowship.IIIValour MisdirectedI’ll hunt for dangers North and South,   To prove my love, which sloth maligns!’What seems to say her rosy mouth?   ‘I’m not convinced by proofs but signs.’

LOVE IN IDLENESS

1What should I do?  In such a wife   Fortune had lavish’d all her store,And nothing now seem’d left for life   But to deserve her more and more.To this I vow’d my life’s whole scope;   And Love said, ‘I forewarn you now,The Maiden will fulfill your hope   Only as you fulfil your vow.’2A promised service, (task for days),   Was done this morning while she slept,With that full heart which thinks no praise   Of vows which are not more than kept;But loftier work did love impose.   And studious hours.  Alas, for these,While she from all my thoughts arose   Like Venus from the restless seas!3I conn’d a scheme, within mind elate:   My Uncle’s land would fall to me,My skill was much in school debate,   My friends were strong in Salisbury;A place in Parliament once gain’d,   Thro’ saps first labour’d out of sight,Far loftier peaks were then attain’d   With easy leaps from height to height;And that o’erwhelming honour paid,   Or recognised, at least, in life,Which this most sweet and noble Maid   Should yield to him who call’d her Wife.4I fix’d this rule: in Sarum Close   To make two visits every week,The first, to-day; and, save on those,   I nought would do, think, read, or speak,Which did not help my settled will   To earn the Statesman’s proud applause.And now, forthwith, to mend my skill   In ethics, politics, and laws,The Statesman’s learning!  Flush’d with power   And pride of freshly-form’d resolve,I read Helvetius half-an-hour;   But, halting in attempts to solveWhy, more than all things else that be,   A lady’s grace hath force to moveThat sensitive appetency   Of intellectual good, call’d love,Took Blackstone down, only to draw   My swift-deriving thoughts ere longTo love, which is the source of law,   And, like a king, can do no wrong;Then open’d Hyde, where loyal hearts,   With faith unpropp’d by precedent,Began to play rebellious parts.   O, mighty stir that little meant!How dull the crude, plough’d fields of fact   To me who trod the Elysian grove!How idle all heroic act   By the least suffering of love!I could not read; so took my pen,   And thus commenced, in form of notes,A Lecture for the Salisbury men,   With due regard to Tory votes:‘A road’s a road, though worn to ruts;   They speed who travel straight therein;But he who tacks and tries short cuts   Gets fools’ praise and a broken shin—’And here I stopp’d in sheer despair;   But, what to-day was thus begun,I vow’d, up starting from my chair,   To-morrow should indeed be done;So loosed my chafing thoughts from school,   To play with fancy as they chose,And then, according to my rule,   I dress’d, and came to Sarum Close.5Ah, that sweet laugh!  Diviner sense   Did Nature, forming her, inspireTo omit the grosser elements,   And make her all of air and fire!6To-morrow, Cowes’ Regatta fell:   The Dean would like his girls to go,If I went too.  ‘Most gladly.’  Well,   I did but break a foolish vow!Unless Love’s toil has love for prize,   (And then he’s Hercules), aboveAll other contrarieties   Is labour contrary to love.No fault of Love’s, but nature’s laws!   And Love, in idleness, lies quick;For as the worm whose powers make pause,   And swoon, through alteration sick,The soul, its wingless state dissolved,   Awaits its nuptial life complete,All indolently self-convolved,   Cocoon’d in silken fancies sweet.

CANTO V

The Queen’s Room

PRELUDES

IRejected‘Perhaps she’s dancing somewhere now!’   The thoughts of light and music wakeSharp jealousies, that grow and grow   Till silence and the darkness ache.He sees her step, so proud and gay,   Which, ere he spake, foretold despair:Thus did she look, on such a day,   And such the fashion of her hair;And thus she stood, when, kneeling low,   He took the bramble from her dress,And thus she laugh’d and talk’d, whose ‘No’   Was sweeter than another’s ‘Yes.’He feeds on thoughts that most deject;   He impudently feigns her charms,So reverenced in his own respect,   Dreadfully clasp’d by other arms;And turns, and puts his brows, that ache,   Against the pillow where ’tis cold.If, only now his heart would break!   But, oh, how much a heart can hold.IIRachelYou loved her, and would lie all night   Thinking how beautiful she was,And what to do for her delight.   Now both are bound with alien laws!Be patient; put your heart to school;   Weep if you will, but not despair;The trust that nought goes wrong by rule   Should ease this load the many bear.Love, if there’s heav’n, shall meet his dues,   Though here unmatch’d, or match’d amiss;Meanwhile, the gentle cannot choose   But learn to love the lips they kiss.Ne’er hurt the homely sister’s ears   With Rachel’s beauties; secret beThe lofty mind whose lonely tears   Protest against mortality.IIIThe Heart’s PropheciesBe not amazed at life; ’tis still   The mode of God with his electTheir hopes exactly to fulfil,   In times and ways they least expect.

THE QUEEN’S ROOM

1There’s nothing happier than the days   In which young Love makes every thoughtPure as a bride’s blush, when she says   ‘I will’ unto she knows not what;And lovers, on the love-lit globe,   For love’s sweet sake, walk yet aloof,And hear Time weave the marriage-robe,   Attraction warp and reverence woof.2My Housekeeper, my Nurse of yore,   Cried, as the latest carriage went,‘Well, Mr, Felix, Sir, I’m sure   The morning’s gone off excellent!I never saw the show to pass   The ladies, in their fine fresh gowns,So sweetly dancing on the grass,   To music with its ups and downs.We’d such work, Sir, to clean the plate;   ’Twas just the busy times of old.The Queen’s Room, Sir, look’d quite like state.   Miss Smythe, when she went up, made boldTo peep into the Rose Boudoir,   And cried, “How charming! all quite new;”And wonder’d who it could be for.   All but Miss Honor look’d in too.But she’s too proud to peep and pry.   None’s like that sweet Miss Honor, Sir!Excuse my humbleness, but I   Pray Heav’n you’ll get a wife like her!The Poor love dear Miss Honor’s ways   Better than money.  Mrs. Rouse,Who ought to know a lady, says   No finer goes to Wilton House.Miss Bagshaw thought that dreary room   Had kill’d old Mrs. Vaughan with fright;She would not sleep in such a tomb   For all her host was worth a night!Miss Fry, Sir, laugh’d; they talk’d the rest   In French; and French Sir’s Greek to me;But, though they smiled, and seem’d to jest,   No love was lost, for I could seeHow serious-like Miss Honor was—’   ‘Well, Nurse, this is not my affair.The ladies talk’d in French with cause.   Good-day; and thank you for your prayer.’3I loiter’d through the vacant house,   Soon to be her’s; in one room stay’d,Of old my mother’s.  Here my vows   Of endless thanks were oftenest paid.This room its first condition kept;   For, on her road to Sarum Town,Therein an English Queen had slept,   Before the Hurst was half pull’d down.The pictured walls the place became:   Here ran the Brook Anaurus, whereStout Jason bore the wrinkled dame   Whom serving changed to Juno; there,Ixion’s selfish hope, instead   Of the nuptial goddess, clasp’d a cloud;And, here, translated Psyche fed   Her gaze on Love, not disallow’d.4And in this chamber had she been,   And into that she would not look,My Joy, my Vanity, my Queen,   At whose dear name my pulses shook!To others how express at all   My worship in that joyful shrine?I scarcely can myself recall   What peace and ardour then were mine;And how more sweet than aught below,   The daylight and its duties done,It felt to fold the hands, and so   Relinquish all regards but one;To see her features in the dark,   To lie and meditate once moreThe grace I did not fully mark,   The tone I had not heard before;And from my pillow then to take   Her notes, her picture, and her glove,Put there for joy when I should wake,   And press them to the heart of love;And then to whisper ‘Wife!’ and pray   To live so long as not to missThat unimaginable day   Which farther seems the nearer ’tis;And still from joy’s unfathom’d well   To drink, in dreams, while on her browsOf innocence ineffable   Blossom’d the laughing bridal rose.

CANTO VI

The Love-Letters

PRELUDES

ILove’s PerversityHow strange a thing a lover seems   To animals that do not love!Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams,   And flouts us with his Lady’s glove;How foreign is the garb he wears;   And how his great devotion mocksOur poor propriety, and scares   The undevout with paradox!His soul, through scorn of worldly care,   And great extremes of sweet and gall,And musing much on all that’s fair,   Grows witty and fantastical;He sobs his joy and sings his grief,   And evermore finds such delightIn simply picturing his relief,   That ’plaining seems to cure his plight;He makes his sorrow, when there’s none;   His fancy blows both cold and hot;Next to the wish that she’ll be won,   His first hope is that she may not;He sues, yet deprecates consent;   Would she be captured she must fly;She looks too happy and content,   For whose least pleasure he would die;Oh, cruelty, she cannot care   For one to whom she’s always kind!He says he’s nought, but, oh, despair,   If he’s not Jove to her fond mind!He’s jealous if she pets a dove,   She must be his with all her soul;Yet ’tis a postulate in love   That part is greater than the whole;And all his apprehension’s stress,   When he’s with her, regards her hair,Her hand, a ribbon of her dress,   As if his life were only there;Because she’s constant, he will change,   And kindest glances coldly meet,And, all the time he seems so strange,   His soul is fawning at her feet;Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired,   He wickedly provokes her tears,And when she weeps, as he desired,   Falls slain with ecstasies of fears;He blames her, though she has no fault,   Except the folly to be his;He worships her, the more to exalt   The profanation of a kiss;Health’s his disease, he’s never well   But when his paleness shames her rose;His faith’s a rock-built citadel,   Its sign a flag that each way blows;His o’erfed fancy frets and fumes;   And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate,And ruffles his ambrosial plumes   Against the bars of time and fate.IIThe Power of LoveSamson the Mighty, Solomon   The Wise, and Holy David allMust doff their crowns to Love, for none   But fell as Love would scorn to fall!And what may fallen spirits win,   When stripes and precepts cannot move?Only the sadness of all sin,   When look’d at in the light of Love.

THE LOVE-LETTERS

1‘You ask, Will admiration halt,   Should spots appear within my Sun?Oh, how I wish I knew your fault,   For Love’s tired gaze to rest upon!Your graces, which have made me great,   Will I so loftily admire,Yourself yourself shall emulate,   And be yourself your own desire.I’ll nobly mirror you too fair,   And, when you’re false to me your glass,What’s wanting you’ll by that repair,   So bring yourself through me to pass.O dearest, tell me how to prove   Goodwill which cannot be express’d;The beneficial heart of love   Is labour in an idle breast.Name in the world your chosen part,   And here I vow, with all the bentAnd application of my heart   To give myself to your content.Would you live on, home-worshipp’d, thus,   Not proudly high nor poorly low?Indeed the lines are fall’n to us   In pleasant places!  Be it so.But would you others heav’nward move,   By sight not faith, while you they admire?I’ll help with zeal as I approve   That just and merciful desire.High as the lonely moon to view   I’ll lift your light; do you decreeYour place, I’ll win it; for from you   Command inspires capacity.Or, unseen, would you sway the world   More surely?  Then in gracious rhymeI’ll raise your emblem, fair unfurl’d   With blessing in the breeze of time.Faith removes mountains, much more love;   Let your contempt abolish meIf ought of your devisal prove   Too hard or high to do or be.’2I ended.  ‘From your Sweet-Heart, Sir,’   Said Nurse, ‘The Dean’s man brings it down.’I could have kiss’d both him and her!   ‘Nurse, give him that, with half-a-crown.’How beat my heart, how paused my breath,   When, with perversely fond delay,I broke the seal, that bore a wreath   Of roses link’d with one of bay.3‘I found your note.  How very kind   To leave it there!  I cannot tellHow pleased I was, or how you find   Words to express your thoughts so well.The Girls are going to the Ball   At Wilton.  If you can, do come;And any day this week you call   Papa and I shall be at home.You said to Mary once—I hope   In jest—that women should be vain:On Saturday your friend (her Pope),   The Bishop dined with us again.She put the question, if they ought?   He turn’d it cleverly away(For giddy Mildred cried, she thought   We must), with “What we must we may.”‘Dear papa laugh’d, and said ’twas sad   To think how vain his girls would be,Above all Mary, now she had   Episcopal authority.But I was very dull, dear friend,   And went upstairs at last, and cried.Be sure to come to-day, or send   A rose-leaf kiss’d on either side.Adieu!  I am not well.  Last night   My dreams were wild: I often woke,The summer-lightning was so bright;   And when it flash’d I thought you spoke.’