Griselda's early days Of married life were not that fitful maze Of tears and laughter which betoken aught, Changed or exchanged, of pain with pleasure bought, Of maiden freedom conquered and subdued, Of hopes new born and fears of womanhood. Those who then saw Griselda saw a child Well pleased and happy, thoughtlessly beguiled By every simplest pleasure of her age, Gay as a bird just issued from its cage, When every flower is sweet. No eye could trace Doubt or disquiet written on her face, Where none there was. And, if the truth be told, Griselda grieved not that Lord L. was old. She found it well that her sweet seventeen Should live at peace with fifty, and was seen Just as she felt, contented with her lot, Pleased with what was and pleased with what was not. She held her husband the more dear that he Was kind within the bounds of courtesy, And love was not as yet within her plan, And life was fair, and wisdom led the van. For she was wise--oh, wise! She rose at eight And played her scales till breakfast, and then sat The morning through with staid and serious looks, Counting the columns of her household books, Her daily labour, or with puzzled head Bent over languages alive and dead, Wise as, alas! in life those only are Who have not yet beheld a twentieth year. Wealth had its duties, time its proper use, Youth and her marriage should be no excuse; Her education must be made complete! Lord L. looked on and quite approved of it. The afternoons, in sense of duty done, Went by more idly than the rest had gone. If in the country, which Lord L. preferred, She had her horse, her dogs, her favourite bird, Her own rose-garden, which she loved to rake, Her fish to feed with bread crumbs in the lake, Her schools, old women, poor and almshouses, Her sick to visit, or her church to dress. Lord L. was pleased to see her bountiful: They hardly found the time to find it dull.