She had bestowed Her love, her life, her goodly self on heaven, And had been nobly earnest in her gift. Before all lovers she had chosen Christ; Before all idols, God; before all wish And will of loving man, her heart and hand Were pledged to duty. Could she be a wife? Could she be mine, with such unstinted wealth Of love, and love's devotion, as I craved? Would she not leave me for a Sunday School Before the first moon's wane? Would she not seek The cant and snuffle of conventicles "At early candle-light," and sing her hymns To drivelling boors, and cheat me of her songs? Would she exhaust herself in "doing good" After the modern styles--in patching quilts, And knitting socks, and bearing feeble tracts To dirty little children--not to speak Of larger work for missionary folk? Would there not come a time (O! fateful time!) When Dorcas and her host would fill my house, And I by courtesy be held at home To entertain their twaddle, and to smile, While in God's name and lovely Charity's They would consume my substance? Would she not Become the stern and stately president Of some society, or figure in the list Of slim directresses in spectacles? So much for questions: then reflections came. These pious women make more careful wives Than giddy ones. They do not run away, Though, doubtless, husbands live whose hearts would heal, Broken by such a blow! The time they give To worship and to pious offices Defrauds the mirror mainly; and the gold That goes for charity goes not for gems. Besides, these pious and believing wives Make gentle mothers, who, with self-control And patient firmness, train their children well-- A fact to be remembered. But, alas! They train their husbands too, and undertake A mission to their souls, so gently pushed, So tenderly, they may not take offence, Or punish with rebuff; and yet, dear hearts! With such persistence, that they reach the raw Before they know it: so it comes to tears At last, with comfort in an upper room. But then--a seal is sacred to them, and a purse Or pocket-book, though in a dressing-room With shutters and a key! Thus wrapped in thought And selfish calculation of the claims Of one my peer, or my superior, In every personal and moral grace, I walked along, till, on my consciousness, Flashed the absurdity of my conceits And my assumptions, and I laughed outright-- Laughed at myself, so loudly and so long That I was startled. Not for many months Had sound of mirth escaped me; and my voice Rang strangely in my ears, as if the lips Of one long dead had spoken.