riage--then to be
Dosed with my husband twenty times _per diem_,
With _repetetur haustus_ after tea!
And, if he should die, what can I get by him?
A jointure's nothing among fifty-three!
I'm meek enough--but this I can _not_ bear--
I wish: I wish:--I wish a girl might swear!"

In such a mood, she--(stop! I'll mend my pen;
For now all our preliminaries _are_ done,
And I am come unto the crisis, when
Her fate depends on a kind reader's pardon)--
Wandering forth beyond the ladies' ken,
She thought she spied a male face in the garden--
She hasten'd thither--she was not mistaken,
For sure enough, a man was there a-raking.

A man complete he was who own'd the visage,
A man of thirty-three, or may-be longer--
So young, she could not well distinguish his age--
So old, she knew he had one day been younger.
Now thirty-three, although a very nice age,
Is not so nice as twenty, twenty-one, or
So; but of lovers when a lady's caught one,
She seldom stops to stipulate what sort o' one.

Now, the first moment Hy-son saw the gardener--
A gardener, by his tools and dress she knew--
She felt her bosom round her heart in a--
A--just as if her heart was breaking through;
And so she blush'd, and hoped that he would pardon her
Intruding on his grounds--"so nice they grew!--
Such roses! what a pink!--and then that peony;
Might she die if she ever look'd to see any!"

The gardener offer'd her a budding rose:
She took it with a smile, and colour'd high;
While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,
He took the opportunity to sigh.
And Hy-son's cheek blush'd like the daylight's close!
She glanced around to see that none were nigh,
Then sigh'd again and thought, "Although a peasant,
His manners are refined, and really pleasant."

They stood each looking in the other's eyes,
Till Hy-son dropp'd her gaze, and then--good lack
Love is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.
And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!
Still barters he such baubles for the prize,
Which all regret when lost, yet can't get back--
The heart--a useful matter in a bosom--
Though some folks won't believe it till they lose 'em.

Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.
Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip
The dewy rose she held, the gardener's token,
He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,
The stem sway'd e