At last, the chosen at her side Hath asked her to become his Bride; Hath told not half the manly love Which all his future life shall prove; And every tender, timid word, Her ears hath drank—her heart has heard: Yet maiden shame would half repress } The words her blushing cheeks confess, } Fond thoughts she dares not all express. } “Look up, mine own! a word—a sign— To tell me you are ever mine; Nay, are you pained, that thus you sigh, And listen with averted eye?— Say—may I hope?”—O! who can tell The rapture on his soul which fell, When those twin faltering lips betrayed The “Yes,” of that dear conscious maid? Scarcely his joy he can dissemble, The while he felt her round arm tremble Within his own, as to his breast, Gently, but lovingly, ’twas pressed. And she—O! who could e’er disclose The deep, tumultuous bliss she knows? She longs to be alone, to weep The tears she scarce concealed can keep. Now, bolder grown, the ardent youth Repeats his vows of faith and truth, ’Till, all disclosed, the maid may own The secret by her blushes shewn. At last—for Time, who jealous hovers O’er mortal raptures, spares not lovers— He leads her to her mother’s chair, And whispers (not to empty air) How high his bliss, how great his pride, To call her angel-daughter bride: Smiling, the lady hears the news, She could not parley or refuse; Yet dignified the gracious mien In which she let assent be seen. ’Twas fixed next morning he should call And tell the good Lord Percy all: No fear of him—he could not say, To Mary and Lord Deloraine, “Nay!” Pass we the interim in our song— O! but the lovers thought it long! ’Twere vain to tell how quickly flew The hours which now the lovers knew, As, ne’er apart, they rode or walked, Or of the golden future talked, For even old age looks passing bright When viewed by Love’s own magic light: Or how the self-same poet’s page Would oft their downcast eyes engage.— The bard who sung the “hell[3] of sueing,” Forgot, methinks, the heaven of wooing! No Deloraine blamed the law’s delay, And drove to Lincoln’s Inn each day To urge its ministers to speed, Who of impatience took small heed. They wasted weeks, without remorse, Their tedious covenants to endorse; Talked of fee-simple and entail, And due provisions for heirs-male And younger children, and made good Jointure in case of widowhood— Nay, so o’er-provident were they, As with shred counsel long to weigh What sum, in case of separation, Should form the lady’s reparation. The youth to fancy did begin That Time stood still in Lincoln’s Inn; He’d wait no more, but spoke aloud, And, angry with impatience, vowed He’d rather give his whole estate Than for tedious lawyers wait. Cold to his prayers, those parchment men The pin-money must settle then.