IV.
A Distinction.
The lack of lovely pride, in her
Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs,
And still the maid I most prefer
Whose care to please with pleasing comes.
MARY AND MILDRED.
1
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.
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?