She gives me a kiss when we part for the I think of woman, and think of man, day, Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird; She reads it at sight, and the language too, Though I know never a word. The tie that binds, and the wrongs that part, And long to utter in burning words What I feel to-night in my heart. She sews-a little; makes collars and No weak complaint of the man I love, sleeves; Or embroiders me slippers (always too But-something that women understand, small); Nets silken purses (for me to fill)— Often does nothing at all But dream in her chamber, holding a flower, Or reading my letters (she'd better read Even now, while I am freezing with cold, No praise of myself or my sisterhood; By men never understood. Their natures jar in a thousand things; Little matter, alas! who is right or wrong. She goes to the wall. "She is weak!" they say; It is that that makes them strong. But grant us weak (as in truth we are If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud For the usual kiss at the door. I'll have with my dinner a bottle of port, To warm up my blood and soothe my mind; Then a little music, for even I Like music-when I have dined. I'll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair, WEAK!" Is the burden still of their song. Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray? My hands are willing, my brain is clear, And feel her behind me patting my But the work of the world belongs to man; head; Or, drawing the little one on my knee, II. Will he never come? I have watch'd for him Till the misty panes are roughen'd with I can see no more: shall I never hear I think of him in the lonesome night, I sit by the grate, and hark for his step, There is nothing for woman to do. Yes, she has the holy duties of home, In short, a life without care. So our masters say. But what do they know Of our lives and feelings when they are Our household duties, our petty tasks, That their homes are pleasant; they And stare in the fire with a troubled One takes a wife to flatter his pride; mind; The glow of the coals is bright in my They say they love us; perhaps they do, face, In a masculine way, as they love their But the soul of a woman needs something more, Or it suffers at times like mine. Not that Arthur is ever unkind In word or deed, for he loves me well; But I fear he thinks me weak as the rest (And I may be: who can tell?) I should die if he changed or loved me less, Oh, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life! At least for your child. But I hear his step He must not find me in tears. TO AN ABSENT WIFE. WRITTEN AT BILOXI. 'TIS Morn:-the sea-breeze seems to bring 'Tis Noon:-—a calm, unbroken sleep "Tis Eve:-on earth the sunset skies 'Tis Midnight-with a soothing spell, Soft as a mother's cadence mild, And on each wandering breeze are heard In many a wild and wondrous lay: I sink in dreams:-low, sweet, and clear, GEORGE DENNISON PRENTICE. FARE THEE WELL! FARE thee well! and if for ever, Would that breast were bared before thee Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee, Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away: Still thine own its life retaineth,— Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, Words from me are vainer still; Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss- I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day, A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and That humor interposed too often makes; The parting words shall pass my lips no Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued The violet, the pink, and jessamine, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, Could those few pleasant days again appear, Where once we dwelt our name is heard Might one wish bring them, would I wish Children not thine have trod my nursery I would not trust my heart; the dear de So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd | I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempesttoss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;— Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Oh to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do you know the truth now up in heaven, I never was worthy of you, Douglas; And day by day some current's thwarting Now all men beside seem to me like By contemplation's help, not sought in Each chair is fill'd; we're all at home! vain, To-night let no cold stranger come. I seem to have lived my childhood o'er It is not often thus around again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft,Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. WILLIAM COWPER. TOO LATE. "Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, Our old familiar hearth we're found. We're not all here! We're not all here. |