Though love may be a troubled stream, And oftimes seek a troubled sea, I find the passage like a dream, In sailing down its tide with thee; And feel resigned amidst the roar That would against our barque prevail, Till every idle gust is o’er That hangs around its bridal sail. I cling to thee, by night by day— With all a wife’s affection tried, And bless thee fondly when away, And when reclining at my side. I think of thee where’er thou art, Nor can forget thee though unseen— Thou beacon of my trusting heart! That cheer’st it through each passing scene. In doubt—in transport—or distress, My soul reclines itself on thee, Whose words are ever quick to bless— And being bless’d it clings to thee. It clings around the cherished name It first rejoic’d to know was thine— In bliss or sorrow—wrong or shame, For ever yours—for ever mine. I cling to thee as guide and friend— The plighted guardian of my heart— Whose presence doth a brightness lend, That leaves a sadness when apart. The love I know, the joy I feel, As closely with thy Fate entwin’d— And time cannot thy memory steal, From out the chambers of my mind. I cling to thee in calm or storm— In terror—torture—bond or free, My love from out its fountain warm, Still rolls in tranquil rills to thee. For thee it pours the fervent prayer— The morning hymn—the evening lay— That thou mayst never know despair, Nor fell Misfortune’s friendless sway. I cling to thee as clings the vine Around some noble forest tree— And when thou shalt thy strength resign, I too would fall and sleep with thee Yes, ’neath yon bright and flaming sun, And this our own dear native sky, We long have liv’d and lov’d as one, And would as one together die. Thou’rt dear to me through all of time— And in that hour when life takes wing, The thought serene—the hope sublime— Departing still to thee shall cling. But shouldst thou, love, first sink to sleep, And light my worldly path no more, My soul shall wait, and watch, and weep, And cling to thee, though gone before. * * * * * A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM. BY EDGAR A. POE. We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.