That something pleasant was going to be,
And—coincidence strange!—my eye has caught
The sight of the thing it desired to see.
I have felt a depression all the day,
A dullness for which I could not account,
And a flower has died—a dog run away—
Or a horse gone lame that I wish'd to mount.
And if from the regions of mysteries
Something can warn us of trifles like these;
How could it be I met Mr. Devize