Part 3

If still the paths of lore she follow, 'Twill be with tired and goaded will; She'll only toil, the aching hollow, The joyless blank of life to fill.

And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary, Her hand will pause, her head decline; That labour seems so hard and dreary, On which no ray of hope may shine.

Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair; Then comes the day that knows no morrow, And death succeeds to long despair.

So speaks experience, sage and hoary; I see it plainly, know it well, Like one who, having read a story, Each incident therein can tell.

Touch not that ring; 'twas his, the sire Of that forsaken child; And nought his relics can inspire Save memories, sin-defiled.

I, who sat by his wife's death-bed, I, who his daughter loved, Could almost curse the guilty dead, For woes the guiltless proved.

And heaven did curse--they found him laid, When crime for wrath was rife, Cold--with the suicidal blade Clutched in his desperate gripe.

'Twas near that long deserted hut, Which in the wood decays, Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root, And lopped his desperate days.

You know the spot, where three black trees, Lift up their branches fell, And moaning, ceaseless as the seas, Still seem, in every passing breeze, The deed of blood to tell.

They named him mad, and laid his bones Where holier ashes lie; Yet doubt not that his spirit groans In hell's eternity.

But, lo! night, closing o'er the earth, Infects our thoughts with gloom; Come, let us strive to rally mirth Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth In some more cheerful room.

THE WIFE'S WILL.

Sit still--a word--a breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake) The glassy calm that soothes my woes-- The sweet, the deep, the full repose. O leave me not! for ever be Thus, more than life itself to me!

Yes, close beside thee let me kneel-- Give me thy hand, that I may feel The friend so true--so tried--so dear, My heart's own chosen--indeed is near; And check me not--this hour divine Belongs to me--is fully mine.

'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence--wandering wide; 'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes A promise clear of stormless skies; For faith and true love light the rays Which shine responsive to her gaze.

Ay,--well that single tear may fall; Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, Which from their lids ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet scarcely past; Well mayst thou speak of love to me, For, oh! most truly--I love thee!

Yet smile--for we are happy now. Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow? What sayst thou?" We muse once again, Ere long, be severed by the main!" I knew not this--I deemed no more Thy step would err from Britain's shore.

"Duty commands!" 'Tis true--'tis just; Thy slightest word I wholly trust, Nor by request, nor faintest sigh, Would I to turn thy purpose try; But, William, hear my solemn vow-- Hear and confirm!--with thee I go.

"Distance and suffering," didst thou say? "Danger by night, and toil by day?" Oh, idle words and vain are these; Hear me! I cross with thee the seas. Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I--thy true wife--will duly share.

Passive, at home, I will not pine; Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine; Grant this--and be hereafter paid By a warm heart's devoted aid: 'Tis granted--with that yielding kiss, Entered my soul unmingled bliss.

Thanks, William, thanks! thy love has joy, Pure, undefiled with base alloy; 'Tis not a passion, false and blind, Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind; Worthy, I feel, art thou to be Loved with my perfect energy.

This evening now shall sweetly flow, Lit by our clear fire's happy glow; And parting's peace-embittering fear, Is warned our hearts to come not near; For fate admits my soul's decree, In bliss or bale--to go with thee!

THE WOOD.

But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood-- So total is the solitude, We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travellers made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade, And there are scents of flowers around, The evening dew draws from the ground; How soothingly they spread!

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; No--that beats full of sweet content, For now I have my natural part Of action with adventure blent; Cast forth on the wide world with thee, And all my once waste energy To weighty purpose bent.

Yet--sayst thou, spies around us roam, Our aims are termed conspiracy? Haply, no more our English home An anchorage for us may be? That there is risk our mutual blood May redden in some lonely wood The knife of treachery?

Sayst thou, that where we lodge each night, In each lone farm, or lonelier hall Of Norman Peer--ere morning light Suspicion must as duly fall, As day returns--such vigilance Presides and watches over France, Such rigour governs all?