The dream, the discontent, the doubt,
To some injustice flaming out,
Were't else, might leave us both to moan
A kind tradition overthrown,
And dawning promise once more dead
In the pernicious lowlihead
Of not aspiring to be fair.
And what am I, that I should dare
Dispute with God, who moulds one clay
To honour and shame, and wills to pay
With equal wages them that delve
About His vines one hour or twelve!
XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL.
I've dreadful news, my Sister dear!
Frederick has married, as we hear,
Oh, SUCH a girl! This fact we get
From Mr. Barton, whom we met
At Abury once. He used to know,
At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe,
And writes that he 'has seen Fred Graham,
Commander of the Wolf,--the same
The Mess call'd Joseph,--with his Wife
Under his arm.' He 'lays his life,
The fellow married her for love,
For there was nothing else to move.
H is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said
Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.'
Poor Fred! What WILL Honoria say?
She thought so highly of him. Pray
Tell it her gently. I've no right,
I know you hold, to trust my sight;
But Frederick's state could not be hid!
Awl Felix, coming when he did,
Was lucky; for Honoria, too,
Was half in love.
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