If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart Falsehood hath broken will unite no more If the deep-yearning love that hath not found Its like in the cold world, must waste in tearsIf truth, and fervor, and devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness-if beyond The grave there is no Heaven in whose wide air May spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we! THE WIFE'S APPEAL. "Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride above all things strengthens affection." E. L. BULWER. He sat and read. A book with silver clasps, All gorgeous with illuminated lines Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time; And in it were fine mysteries of the stars Clearer than truth, and speculations wild They were so based on Nature. With a face Beneath his limbs, and, as he turned the page, The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold, And the rich woods of the quaint furniture Lay deepening their veined colours in the sun, Of times gone by that made them, and old bards, Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, And rich old pictures hung upon the walls ·Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques From Herculaneum, the niches filled. And on a table of enamel, wrought With a lost art in Italy, there lay Prints of fair women, and engravings rare, And a new poem, and a costly toy, And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep Mingled and blurred, and the lithe hound rose up, The fall of a light foot upon the stair— His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand, Half playful and half serious, she knelt She rose and put the curtain-folds aside But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light, Close to his heart, and, with unsteady voice, Gave to her heart free utterance : Happy?—yes, dearest !—blest Beyond the limit of my wildest dream- One of Hope's promises by Love unkept, And yet-forgive me, Ernest-I have wept. |