Sometimes, (and a pang would seize me That the years were floating on,) I would strive to paint her, altered, And the little baby gone: She no longer young and girlish, The child, standing by her knee, And her face, more pale and saddened With the weariness for me. Then I saw, as night grew darker. How she taught my child to pray, Holding its small hands together, For its father, far away; And I felt her sorrow, weighing Heavier on me than my own; Pitying her blighted spring-time, And her joy so early flown. Till upon my hands (now hardened With the rough, harsh toil of years) Bitter drops of anguish falling, Woke me from my dream, to tears; Woke me as a slave, an outcast. Leagues from home, across the deep; So--though you may call it childish-- So I sobbed myself to sleep. Well, the years sped on--my Sorrow, Calmer, and yet stronger grown, Was my shield against all suffering, Poorer, meaner, than her own. Thus my cruel master's harshness Fell upon me all in vain, Yet the tale of what we suffered Echoed back from main to main. You have heard in a far country Of a self-devoted band, Vowed to rescue Christian captives Pining in a foreign land. And these gentle-hearted strangers Year by year go forth from Rome, In their hands the hard-earned ransom, To restore some exiles home. I was freed: they broke the tidings Gently to me: but indeed Hour by hour sped on, I knew not What the words meant--I was freed! Better so, perhaps; while sorrow (More akin to earthly things) Only strains the sad heart's fibres-- Joy, bright stranger, breaks the strings. Yet at last it rushed upon me, And my heart beat full and fast; What were now my years of waiting, What was all the dreary past? Nothing--to the impatient throbbing I must bear across the sea: Nothing--to the eternal hours Still between my home and me! How the voyage passed, I know not; Strange it was once more to stand With my countrymen around me, And to clasp an English hand. But, through all, my heart was dreaming Of the first words I should hear, In the gentle voice that echoed, Fresh as ever, on my ear. Should I see her start of wonder, And the sudden truth arise, Flushing all her face and lightening The dimmed splendour of her eyes? Oh! to watch the fear and doubting Stir the silent depths of pain, And the rush of joy--then melting Into perfect peace again. And the child!--but why remember Foolish fancies that I thought? Every tree and every hedge-row From the well-known past I brought: I would picture my dear cottage, See the crackling wood-fire burn, And the two beside it seated, Watching, waiting, my return. So, at last we reached the harbour. I remember nothing more Till I stood, my sick heart throbbing, With my hand upon the door. There I paused--I heard her speaking; Low, soft, murmuring words she said; Then I first knew the dumb terror I had had, lest she were dead.