162

THE PET NAME.

My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask: But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

No shade was on us then, save one

Of chestnuts from the hill

And through the wood our laugh did run
As part thereof! The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

163

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd;
Their thoughts I cannot measure;
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man ?

WORDSWORTH.

How blest the youth whom love shall bring,

And happy stars embolden,

To change the dome into a ring,

The silver into golden!

Who'll steal some morning to her side,
To take her finger's measure,
While Mary Anne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure!-

Who'll watch her sew her wedding gown,
Well conscious that it is hers!
Who'll glean a tress, without a frown,
With those so ready scissors!-

Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious-

Don't put the pins into your mouth,

O Mary Anne, my precious!