Look at myself, myself no more; And bright within the mirror shone Honoria's smile, and yet my own! 'And, when you talk, I hear,' she sigh'd, 'How much he loved her! Many a bride In heaven such countersemblance wears Through what Love deem'd rejected prayers.' She would have spoken still; but, lo, One of a glorious troop, aglow From some great work, towards her came, And she so laugh'd, 'twas such a flame, Aaron's twelve jewels seem'd to mix With the lights of the Seven Candlesticks. IX. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM. My dearest Aunt, the Wedding-day, But for Jane's loss, and you away, Was all a Bride from heaven could beg Skies bluer than the sparrow's egg. And clearer than the cuckoo's call; And such a sun! the flowers all With double ardour seem'd to blow! The very daisies were a show, Expanded with uncommon pride, Like little pictures of the Bride. Your Great-Niece and your Grandson were Perfection of a pretty pair. How well Honoria's girls turn out, Although they never go about! Dear me, what trouble and expense It took to teach mine confidence! _Hers_ greet mankind as I've heard say That wild things do, where beasts of prey Were never known, nor any men Have met their fearless eyes till then. Their grave, inquiring trust to find All creatures of their simple kind Quite disconcerts bold coxcombry, And makes less perfect candour shy. Ah, Mrs. Graham! people may scoff, But how your home-kept girls go off! How Hymen hastens to unband The waist that ne'er felt waltzer's hand! At last I see my Sister's right, And I've told Maud this very night, (But, oh, my daughters have such wills!) To knit, and only dance quadrilles. You say Fred never writes to you Frankly, as once he used to do, About himself; and you complain He shared with none his grief for Jane. It all comes of the foolish fright Men feel at the word, hypocrite. Although, when first in love, sometimes They rave in letters, talk, and rhymes, When once they find, as find they must, How hard 'tis to be hourly just To those they love, they are dumb for shame, Where we, you see, talk on the same. Honoria, to whose heart alone He seems to open all his own At times, has tears in her kind eyes, After their private colloquies. He's her most favour'd guest, and moves My spleen by his impartial loves. His pleasure has some inner spring Depending not on anything. Petting our Polly, none e'er smiled More fondly on his favourite child; Yet, playing with his own, it is Somehow as if it were not his. He means to go again to sea, Now that the wedding's over. He Will leave to Emily and John The little ones to practise on; And Major-domo, Mrs. Rouse, A dear old soul from Wilton House, Will scold the housemaids and the cook, Till Emily has learn'd to look A little braver than a lamb Surprised by dogs without its dam! Do, dear Aunt, use your influence, And try to teach some plain good sense To Mary. 'Tis not yet too late To make her change her chosen state Of single silliness.