Harry | Page 7

to hear of the life of a man
I, who only know
of the life of girls!'
He shakes his head with a smile and a nod,
The smoke curling round
it with idle aim;
He is like the picture of some young god,
Who,
from painted clouds, looks out of a frame.
'The life of a girl is a fairy thing,
With a sweetness none can wish to
forget,
Caught from a snowdrop in earliest spring
Or the first faint
breath of a violet;
The life of a man, as it is and was,
Is like autumn
leaves decaying and dead,
With a flavour of bad theatrical gas,
And
of last night's banquet,' my husband said.
I laugh'd at the gay nonsensical speech,
In my merry pride at being
his wife;
I sat at his feet, and I bade him teach
A neophyte out of
his noble life.
He mutter'd 'My noble life!' with a frown,
'With noble lives I have
little to do;
My dear, put those frivolous notions down,
I am but a
man, and a weak one too.
My life has been full of confounded things,

I am only a man, like other men;
But we hear a flutter of
angel-wings,
And our demons forsake us, there and then.
In
marrying thee, my innocent sprite,
I had caught a glimpse of a purer
joy;
I turn'd a new page, and the page was white;
I'm quite
determin'd to be a good boy!'
His hand sought my head with a
careless grace,
And the sun shone suddenly out on us;
O gracious
and sweet was my Harry's face,--
Why should a hero belie himself
thus?
PART II.
When turf is level how rapid the pace!
Linger ye moments!--be
patient my life!
Marriage is only an idyl of grace,
What knows a
bride of the bliss of a wife?

Are all things the dearer for growing old?
As flowers are sweeter
deep in a wood;
Will the warmth of May in July seem cold?
Was
earth less perfect when God call'd it 'good'?
Even roses when young are only green,
And the exquisite perfume
faint and small,
If roses are lovely when just half seen,
When blown
they are sweetest and best of all.
Time passes on, and they open too much;
Still the rich fragrance
about them is shed;
Delicate petals fall off with a touch;
Happy and
mourn'd for, the roses are dead!
And when we die (if death ever can be,
Life leaping in me, it sounds
like a jest),
May it be thus with my Harry and me--
Love's latest
perfume its sweetest and best.
He, whom I speak to, smiles into my face,
Crying, with kisses, that
life would restore,
'All that you say has a feminine grace;
But hasn't
Moore said something like it before?'
From the piano I draw forth a peal,
Greeting the sound with a smile
and a sigh,
Singing 'The Last Rose of Summer,' I feel
That summer
and roses can never die!
'Twas a beautiful evening, fresh and fair,
Earth sweeter far than
impossible skies;
My heart beating light as a bird in air,
When
Harry brought home with him Jack Devize.
Did no presentiment touch me that day?
Never a _soupçon_ of evil or
ill?
No, the world was bright with Harry away,
And when Harry
came back it was brighter still.
The man stood there, and his shadow was laid
Straight at my feet by
the sunset decrees;
I mark'd it well, and I was not afraid;
And when
Harry nam'd him I smil'd with ease.

The roses poured out their exquisite scent,
Birds gave us the sweetest
music they had,
And the little grasses daintily bent
In the tender
breeze, as if they were glad.
Are there not angels to guard us and keep?
Are spirits not round us
hidden from sight?
Oh! angels and spirits were all asleep,
Or they
must have warn'd me that fatal night.
I have wak'd with the thought of an absent friend
(And others I know
who have done the same),
And have felt 'ere I see the daylight's end,

Her letter must come--and her letter came.
I have run indoors with
the happy thought
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
With a smiling face
and a heart at ease?
No dream at night, when by wonderful laws
The bodies are dead, the
spirits alive;
No little heart--sinking without a cause
When the
perfect sunshine made nature thrive;
No omen or signal, little or great,

Not a quicken'd pulse or a flutter'd breath;--
So Harry and I rush'd
on to our fate,
And the unseen world was passive as Death.
We stroll'd through the gardens till dinner came,
The scented breezes
were faultlessly sweet;
The sun went suddenly down in a flame,

While the birds their jubilant hymns repeat,
We chatted at dinner, and
afterwards,
And the moments