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.