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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.

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

my hand!

VOL. IL

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

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

brace.

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

root.

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 hap

pier 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 on 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

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.

0, 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 her.

self was not exempt — Truly, she herself had suffer'd - Perish in thy self

contempt!

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