« VorigeDoorgaan »
THE DESERTED WIFE. He comes not-I have watched the moon go down, But yet he comes not.—Once it was not so: He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, The while he holds his riot in that town. Yet he will come and chide, and I shall weep, And he will wake my infant from its sleep, To blend its feeble wailings with my tears ! Oh how I love a mother's watch to keep O'er those sleeping eyes--that smile, which cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow fixed and deep. I had a husband once who loved me-now, He ever wears a frown upon his brow, And feeds his passion on a wanton's life, As bees from laurel flower a poison sip! But yet I cannot hate-0! there were hours, When I would hang for ever on his eye, And time, who stole with silent sadness by, Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. I loved him then, he loved me too-my heart Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile. The memory of our loves will ne'er depart! And though he often sting me with a dart, Venom'd and barb’d, and
waste upon the vile Caresses, which his babe and mine should share; Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear His madness—and should sickness come, and lay Its paralysing hand upon him, then I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay, Until the penitent should weep and say How injured and how faithful I have been.
W. OSBORNE, PRINTER, CHESTER STREET, BIRKENHEAD.