That after passage of mysterious years We heard sad stories of your misery, And rumors of desertion; but your pen Revealed no secrets of your altered life. Enough for me that you are here to-night, And have an ear for sorrow, and a heart Which disappointment has inhabited. My history you know. A twelvemonth since This fearful, festive night, and in this house, I gave my hand to one whom I believed To be the noblest man God ever made;-- A man who seemed to my infatuate heart Heaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soul The choicest harmonies of life should flow, Growing articulate upon his lips In numbers to enchant a willing world. I cannot tell you of the pride that filled My bosom, as I marked his manly form, And read his soul through his effulgent eyes, And heard the wondrous music of his voice, That swept the chords of feeling in all hearts With such a divine persuasion as might grow Under the transit of an angel's hand. And, then, to think that I, a farmer's child, Should be the woman culled from all the world To be that man's companion,--to abide The nearest soul to such a soul--to sit Close by the fountain of his peerless life-- The welling center of his loving thoughts-- And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best,-- To lay my head upon his breast, and feel That of all precious burdens it had borne That was most precious--Oh! my heart was wild With the delirium of happiness-- But, Mary, you are weeping! _Mary_. Mark it not. Your words wake memories which you may guess, And thoughts which you may sometime know--not now. _Grace_. Well, we were married, as I said; and I Was not unthankful utterly, I think; Though, if the awful question had come then, And stood before me with a brow severe And steady finger, bidding me decide Which of the two I loved the more, the God Who gave my husband to me, or his gift, I know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes.