Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame Of this ungodly shine of human pride, And sadly blends his reverence and blame In one grave bow, and passes with a stride Impatient:--many a red-hooded dame Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again, That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. VII. "I have a lily in the bloom at home," Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath day I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come And read a lesson upon vain array;-- And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say-- Making my reverence,--'Ladies, an you please, King Solomon's not half so fine as these,'" VIII. Then her meek partner, who has nearly run His earthly course,--"Nay, Goody, let your text Grow in the garden.--We have only one-- Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next? Summer will come again, and summer sun, And lilies too,--but I were sorely vext To mar my garden, and cut short the blow Of the last lily I may live to grow," IX. "The last!" quoth she, "and though the last it were-- Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair, And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd And curtsey'd to!--last Sabbath after pray'r, I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud If they were angels--but I made him know God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!" X. So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng, Hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk, And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong, And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk, And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along, And gentle peasant clad in buff and green, Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene; XI. And blushing maiden--modestly array'd In spotless white,--still conscious of the glass; And she, the lonely widow, that hath made A sable covenant with grief,--alas! She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade, While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass, Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress Her boy,--so rosy!--and so fatherless! XII. Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near The fair white temple, to the timely call Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear.-- Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere Of the low porch, and heav'n has won them all, --Saying those two, that turn aside and pass, In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass. XIII. Ah me! to see their silken manors trail'd In purple luxuries--with restless gold,-- Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd In blotted black,--over the heapy mould Panting wave-wantonly! They never quail'd How the warm vanity abused the cold; Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone Sadly uplooking through transparent stone: XIV.