| |
| O, MY love ’s like the steadfast sun, | |
| Or streams that deepen as they run; | |
| Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, | |
| Nor moments between sighs and tears, | |
| Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, | 5 |
| Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, | |
| Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows | |
| To sober joys and soften woes, | |
| Can make my heart or fancy flee, | |
| One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. | 10 |
| |
| Even while I muse, I see thee sit | |
| In maiden bloom and matron wit; | |
| Fair, gentle as when first I sued, | |
| Ye seem, but of sedater mood; | |
| Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee | 15 |
| As when, beneath Arbigland tree, | |
| We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon | |
| Set on the sea an hour too soon; | |
| Or lingered mid the falling dew, | |
| When looks were fond and words were few. | 20 |
| |
| Though I see smiling at thy feet | |
| Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet, | |
| And time, and care, and birthtime woes | |
| Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, | |
| To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong | 25 |
| Whate’er charms me in tale or song. | |
| When words descend like dews, unsought, | |
| With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, | |
| And Fancy in her heaven flies free, | |
| They come, my love, they come from thee. | 30 |
| |
| O, when more thought we gave, of old, | |
| To silver than some give to gold, | |
| ’T was sweet to sit and ponder o’er | |
| How we should deck our humble bower; | |
| ’T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, | 35 |
| The golden fruit of fortune’s tree; | |
| And sweeter still to choose and twine | |
| A garland for that brow of thine,— | |
| A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, | |
| While rivers flow, and woods grow green. | 40 |
| |
| At times there come, as come there ought, | |
| Grave moments of sedater thought, | |
| When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night | |
| One gleam of her inconstant light; | |
| And Hope, that decks the peasant’s bower, | 45 |
| Shines like a rainbow through the shower; | |
| O, then I see, while seated nigh, | |
| A mother’s heart shine in thine eye, | |
| And proud resolve and purpose meek, | |
| Speak of thee more than words can speak. | 50 |
| I think this wedded wife of mine | |
| The best of all that ’s not divine. | |
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