She was renowned, traditions say, For June conserves, for curds and whey, For finest tea (she called it "tay"), And ratafia; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, Could tell the sovereign wash to use For freckles, and was learned in brews As erst Medea. Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed," Though, as I think, she could not heed His text profoundly; Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window-seat, Where, if you chanced to raise your feet You slumbered soundly. This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, In truth, was not so much to blame; The excellent divine I name Is scarcely stirring; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word Was for the erring. If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept Within her cuff-box, I know not. Only this I know, At sixty-five she'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, With monstrous snuff-box. |