"The last!" quoth she, "and though the last it were--
Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud
With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair,
And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd
And curtsey'd to!--last Sabbath after pray'r,
I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud
If they were angels--but I made him know
God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!"


X.

So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk
That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,
Hand-coupled urchins in restrainëd talk,
And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,
And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk,
And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along,
And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,
Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene;


XI.

And blushing maiden--modestly array'd
In spotless white,--still conscious of the glass;
And she, the lonely widow, that hath made
A sable covenant with grief,--alas!
She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade,
While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass,