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

wrought:

lord is weary, that his brain is over

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

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 proved

Would 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.

T

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.

O, 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 suffer'd"-Perish in thy selfcontempt !

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.