FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 203 Farewell to his Wife. ARE thee well! and if forever, FA Still forever, fare thee well; Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Would that breast by thee glanced over Though the world for this commend thee- Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: 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 And when thou wouldst solace gather, When her little hands shall press thee, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults, perchance, thou knowest, Every feeling hath been shaken; But 'tis done-all words are idle- Fare thee well! thus disunited, Seared in heart, and lone,and blighted, More than this I scarce can die! LORD BYRON. WATCHING. 205 S Watching. LEEP, love, sleep! The dusty day is done. LO! from afar the freshening breezes sweep own from the towering palm, In at the open casement cooling run, And round thy lowly bed, Thy bed of pain, Bathing thy patient head, Like grateful showers of rain, They come; While the white curtains, waving to and fro, And pityingly the shadows come and go, The dusty day is done, While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep! Is there no magic in the touch Of fingers thou dost love so much? Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now; Or, with its mute caress, The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press Upon thy weary lid and aching brow; While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep! On the pagoda spire The bells are swinging, Their little golden circlet in a flutter With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter, Till all are ringing, As if a choir Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing; And with a lulling sound The music floats around, And drops like balm into the drowsy ear; Of the Sepoy's distant drum, And lazy beetle ever droning near. The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes, Peeps from the mortise in surprise At such strange quiet after day's harsh din; And looks about, And with his hollow feet Treads his small evening beat, Darting upon his prey In such a tricky, winsome sort of way, His delicate marauding seems no sin. And still the curtains swing, But noiselessly; The bells a melancholy murmur ring, As tears were in the sky: More heavily the shadows fall, Like the black foldings of a pall, Where juts the rough beam from the wall; The candles flare With fresher gusts of air; The beetle's drone Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan; Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. EMILY C. JUDSON. MY ANGEL GUIDE. 207 I My Angel Guide. GAZED down life's dim labyrinth, A wildering maze to see, Crossed o'er by many a tangled clue, And wild as wild could be; And as I gazed in doubt and dread, I knew him for a heavenly guide, By his deep spirit loveliness And as I leaned my weary head I wondered if the shining ones For there was light within my soul, And all around the blue above The clustering starlight lay; And easterly I saw upreared So, hand in hand we trod the wild, My angel-love and I His lifted wing all quivering With tokens from the sky Strange, my dull thought could not divine 'Twas lifted-but to fly! |