Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Deserted Wife
The Deserted Wife.
He comes not—I have watched the moon go downBut 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 cheersMy 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 hoursWhen 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 heartStill finds its fondness kindle if he smile.The memory of our loves will ne'er depart!And though he often sting me with a dartVenomed and barbed, and waste upon the vileCaresses, which his babe and mine should share;Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bearHis madness—and should sickness come, and layIts paralysing hand upon him, thenI would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,Until the penitent should weep and sayHow injured and how faithful I had been.