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Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by

• day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise

with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a

clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to

drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent

its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his

horse.

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are

glazed with wine. Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand

in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over

wrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy

lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under

standBetter thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with

my hand !

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Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's

disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last

embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength

of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living

truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest

Nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead

of the fool!

Well—'tis well that I should bluster !-Hadst thou

less unworthy provedWould to God-for I had loved thee more than ever

wife was loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but

bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the

root.

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years

should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging

rookery home.

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the

mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew

her, kind?

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak

and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to

love.

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love

she bore ? No—she never loved me truly : love is love for ever

more.

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the

poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering

happier things.

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart

be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is ou

the roof.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring

at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows

rise and fall.

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his

drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that

thou wilt weep.

Thou shalt hear the “Never, never," whisper'd by the

phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of

thine ears;

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness

on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy

rest again.

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender

voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble

dry.

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings

thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the

mother's breast.

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not

his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the

two.

0, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty

part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a

daughter's heart.

“ They were dangerous guides the feelings-she

herself was not exempt Truly, she herself had sufferid”—Perish in thy self

contempt !

Ou

Overlive it-lower yet—be happy! wherefore should

I care ? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by

despair.

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon

days like these ? Every door is barr’d with gold, and opens but to

golden keys.

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets

overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I

should do ?

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's

ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds

are laid with sound.

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