Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Deserted Wife
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 the 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—Oh, there were hours
When I would hang for ever on his eye,
And Time, who stole with silent sadness by,
Strewed, 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
Venomed and barbed, 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 had been.
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 the 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—Oh, there were hours
When I would hang for ever on his eye,
And Time, who stole with silent sadness by,
Strewed, 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
Venomed and barbed, 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 had been.