Harry | Page 5

in gray;

Then draw back astonish'd, afraid to offend,
It is all a mistake, and
she is not a friend.
In a moment sweeps over the vision a change

Deliciously sweet and suddenly strange,
A blush in the cheek and a
light in the eyes;--
A step in the passage, to meet it she flies,
And
still in the mirror I mark the embrace,
Where the strong manly arms
hide the small blushing face.
When the sun rises early to call people out,
There is nothing so sweet
as to wander about,
A hand on an arm or an arm round a waist,
In
lover-like leisure or holiday haste.
Then, all is delightful we see or we
hear,
And speaking or silence are equally dear;
The earth at our feet
of an emerald hue,
The Heaven above us incredibly blue,
The
flowers baptiz'd with miraculous dew.
While yet the sky blushes to welcome the sun,
Through the gay
gardens we stroll and we run;
In fields where lambs gambol less
happy than we,
Glittering grass makes a sheen like the sea;
Birds
unexpectedly set up a chant,
Adding a joy that the world seem'd to
want.
Creation is made for our pleasure alone:
Adam and Eve, with
no sin to atone,
Knowledge untasted, less rapture have known!
Keeping by Harry, a friend who is fond
Follows as closely as follow
he can:
Is there an earthly affection beyond
The love a good dog
feels for a good man?
If twenty people fling down twenty gloves
Our Rover has never been
known to fail;
He picks out the glove of the man he loves,
And
brings it triumphantly, wagging his tail.
Rover and I, under shadowy yew,
List'ning for Harry's dear step on
the path--
He always hears it the first of the two,
Which gives me a
feeling half joy, half wrath.

By divers states can our spirits be mov'd
Our hearts will answer to
many a touch;
We love one creature for being much lov'd,
And we
love another for loving much.
By delicate touches our souls are stirr'd,
Fraught with a meaning life
never reveals:
I wonder the Bible says not a word
Of the faithful
love that a good dog feels.
Good are the mornings for birds in a nest,
Fluttering out from a
beautiful home;
Good are the mornings, but evenings are best,

Seeking its shelter nor asking to roam.
Life, like a secret, is too much for one--
May be too little where
numbers are great--
All may be vanity under the sun,
But all is_
charming when done tête à tête_.
Neighbours will call--what a trouble it is!
Dinners and parties are
made for our sake:
Why must society trouble our bliss?
Dinners and
neighbours are quite a mistake!
Drest as a bride, I must dine at the Grange;
Harry beside me, I have
not a care;
Only it seems so exceedingly strange
Not to be thinking
of meeting him there!
Jane does my hair with a skill, I confess,
Smilingly thinking of days
that are gone,
When for a party I ran up to dress
With neither a
husband nor maid of my own.
Life that is past, did you certainly pass?
When were you actual? how
did you change?
Who is this girl that I see in the glass
Thinking of
things that are happy and strange?
Who is this man who may enter the room,
Placidly certain his
presence must please,
Settle her colours, select her perfume,
Hands
in his pockets serenely at ease:

Who can the girl be, and who is the man?
Light-hearted creatures
who live but to love!
'Tis the result of the Angels' kind plan,
One of
the marriages made up above!
Hand laid in hand to the stairs we advance,
Feet scarcely touching the
carpet at all:
Why should they walk who are able to dance?

Clasping each other, we waltz through the hall!
Pleasant the drive in the twilight's soft gloom;
Dazzling the change to
society's light;
Proud of my Harry I enter the room,
Every eye on
my gallant young knight.
Lovely the welcome around me I see--
Will it be thus through a
beautiful life?
Everybody attentive to me,
And only because I am
Harry's wife?
Dear to my heart are the glitter and grace;
But nothing so charming,
or bright, is here
As the gracious smile upon Harry's face,
Or his
manly voice as it greets my ear.
As from the banquet the ladies depart
I hear two gentlemen
murmuring low--
'The Captain has got an excellent start
But he
won't set the Thames on fire, you know!'
Then I look back and attempt to decide
Who is this Captain who must
not aspire;
I meet Harry's eyes, and I smile with pride,
For I know
he could set the Thames on fire!
Afterwards music; he sings and I sing,
She sings and they sing, and
minutes flit past:--
Harmony certainly quickens Time's wing,
And
the lark sings loudest when flying fast.
HIS SONG.
Must he toil beneath the sun
Who has nothing else to do?
What's
the use of such a one?
I know not--pray do you?
Skies are not

aflame for him;
He converses not with elves;
Primroses on river's
brim
Can be nothing but themselves.
Need he interfere with me,
Who care only to