tapestries o'er; Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree; Larks sing—the woodland wakes once more. The woodland wakes—but not for her! From Nature's self the charm has flown; No more the Spring of earth can stir The fond remembrance of our own! The sweetest bird upon the bough Has not one note of music now; And, oh! how dull the grove's soft shade, Where once—(as lovers then)—we strayed! The nightingales have got no learning—     Dull creatures—how can they inspire her? The lilies are so undiscerning, They never say—"how they admire her!"     In all this jubilee of being, Some subject for a point she's seeing—    Some epigram—(to be impartial,    Well turned)—there may be worse in Martial! But, hark! the goddess stoops to reason:—    "The country now is quite in season, I'll go!"—"What! to our country seat?"    "No!—Travelling will be such a treat; Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear; But Carlsbad's quite the rage this year!"    Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces; Nature is gay—in watering-places! Those pleasant spas—our reigning passion—    Where learned Dons meet folks of fashion; Where—each with each illustrious soul Familiar as in Charon's boat, All sorts of fame sit cheek-by-jowl, Pearls in that string—the table d'hote! Where dames whom man has injured—fly, To heal their wounds or to efface, them; While others, with the waters, try A course of flirting,—just to brace them! Well, there (O man, how light thy woes Compared with mine—thou need'st must see!)    My wife, undaunted, greatly goes—    And leaves the orphans (seven!!!) to me! O, wherefore art thou flown so soon, Thou first fair year—Love's honeymoon! All, dream too exquisite for life! Home's goddess—in the name of wife! Reared by each grace—yet but to be Man's household Anadyomene! With mind from which the sunbeams fall, Rejoice while pervading all; Frank in the temper pleased to please—    Soft in the feeling waked with ease. So broke, as native of the skies, The heart-enthraller on my eyes; So saw I, like a morn of May, The playmate given to glad my way; With eyes that more than lips bespoke, Eyes whence—sweet words—"I love thee!" broke! So—Ah, what transports then were mine! I led the bride before the shrine! And saw the future years revealed, Glassed on my hope—one blooming field! More wide, and widening more, were given The angel-gates disclosing heaven; Round us the lovely, mirthful troop Of children came—yet still to me The loveliest—merriest of the group The happy mother seemed to be! Mine, by the bonds that bind us more Than all the oaths the priest before; Mine, by the concord of content,   

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