III.
The Heart’s Prophecies.
Be not amazed at life; ’tis still
The mode of God with his elect
Their hopes exactly to fulfil,
In times and ways they least expect.
THE QUEEN’S ROOM.
1
There’s nothing happier than the days
In which young Love makes every thought
Pure 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.
2
My 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 bold
To 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 see
How 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.’
3
I 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, where
Stout 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.