My Housekeeper, my Nurse of yore, Cried, as the latest carriage went, ‘Well, Mr, Felix, Sir, I’m sure The morning’s gone off excellent! I never saw the show to pass The ladies, in their fine fresh gowns, So sweetly dancing on the grass, To music with its ups and downs. We’d such work, Sir, to clean the plate; ’Twas just the busy times of old. The Queen’s Room, Sir, look’d quite like state. Miss Smythe, when she went up, made bold To peep into the Rose Boudoir, And cried, “How charming! all quite new;” And wonder’d who it could be for. All but Miss Honor look’d in too. But she’s too proud to peep and pry. None’s like that sweet Miss Honor, Sir! Excuse my humbleness, but I Pray Heav’n you’ll get a wife like her! The Poor love dear Miss Honor’s ways Better than money. Mrs. Rouse, Who ought to know a lady, says No finer goes to Wilton House. Miss Bagshaw thought that dreary room Had kill’d old Mrs. Vaughan with fright; She would not sleep in such a tomb For all her host was worth a night! Miss Fry, Sir, laugh’d; they talk’d the rest In French; and French Sir’s Greek to me; But, though they smiled, and seem’d to jest, No love was lost, for I could see How serious-like Miss Honor was—’ ‘Well, Nurse, this is not my affair. The ladies talk’d in French with cause. Good-day; and thank you for your prayer.’ 3 I loiter’d through the vacant house, Soon to be her’s; in one room stay’d, Of old my mother’s. Here my vows Of endless thanks were oftenest paid. This room its first condition kept; For, on her road to Sarum Town, Therein an English Queen had slept, Before the Hurst was half pull’d down. The pictured walls the place became: Here ran the Brook Anaurus, where Stout Jason bore the wrinkled dame Whom serving changed to Juno; there, Ixion’s selfish hope, instead Of the nuptial goddess, clasp’d a cloud; And, here, translated Psyche fed Her gaze on Love, not disallow’d. 4