a purer joy;
I turn'd a new page, and the page was white;
I'm quite determin'd to be a good boy!'
His hand sought my head with a careless grace,
And the sun shone suddenly out on us;
O gracious and sweet was my Harry's face,--
Why should a hero belie himself thus?

PART II.

When turf is level how rapid the pace!
Linger ye moments!--be patient my life!
Marriage is only an idyl of grace,
What knows a bride of the bliss of a wife?

Are all things the dearer for growing old?
As flowers _are_ sweeter deep in a wood;
Will the warmth of May in July seem cold?
Was earth less perfect when God call'd it 'good'?

Even roses when young are only green,
And the exquisite perfume faint and small,
If roses are lovely when just half seen,
When blown they are sweetest and best of all.

Time passes on, and they open _too_ much;
Still the rich fragrance about them is shed;
Delicate petals fall off with a touch;
Happy and mourn'd for, the roses are dead!

And when _we_ die (if death ever can be,
Life leaping in me, it sounds like a jest),
May it be thus with my Harry and me--
Love's latest perfume its sweetest and best.

He, whom I speak to, smiles into my face,
Crying, with kisses, that life would restore,
'All that you say has a feminine grace;
But _hasn't_ Moore said something like it before?'

From the piano I draw forth a peal,
Greeting the sound with a smile and a sigh,
Singing 'The Last Rose of Summer,' I feel
That summer and roses can _never_ die!

'Twas a beautiful evening, fresh and fair,
Earth sweeter far than impossible skies;
My heart beating light as a bird in air,
When Harry brought home with him Jack Devize.

Did no presentiment touch me that day?
Never a _soupcon_ of evil or ill?
No, the world was bright with Harry away,
And when Harry came back it was brighter still.

The man stood there, and his shadow was laid
Straight at my feet by the sunset decrees;
I mark'd it well, and I was not afraid;
And when Harry nam'd him I smil'd with ease.

The roses poured out their exquisite scent,
Birds gave us the sweetest music they had,
And the little grasses daintily bent
In the tender breeze, as if they were glad.

Are there not angels to guard us and keep?
Are spirits _not_ round us hidden from sight?
Oh! angels and spirits were all asleep,
Or they must have warn'd me that fatal n