What cares that heart, trusting and tender,
For fame or avuncular wills;
Except for the name and the gender,
She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centr’d,
Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl,
Heard Squills—as the creaking boots enter’d,—
Announce that his Boy was—a Girl.
THE WIDOW’S MITE
St Mark’s Gospel, chap. xii. verses 42, 43, 44
The widow had but only one,
A puny and decrepid son;
But day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The widow’s mite.
The widow’s might—yes! so sustain’d
She battled onward, nor complain’d
Though friends were fewer:
And, cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then, and now I see,
Though cheerful and resign’d, still she
Has sorrow’d much:
She has—HE gave it tenderly—
Much faith—and carefully laid by
A little crutch.
ST GEORGE’S, HANOVER SQUARE
“Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pas entièrement.”
She pass’d up the aisle on the arm of her sire,
A delicate lady in bridal attire,
Fair emblem of virgin simplicity:
Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,
Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,
But envied Lord Nigel’s felicity.