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Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;
Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me?
Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one
Warbling so fairily close to my ear; Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,
This that I made for your mother to hear?
Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one-
Wailing so wearily under the stars; Why should I think of her tears, that make light to me,
Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars ?
Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one
Is she not like her, whenever she stirs ?
Lips that will some day be honeyed, like hers ?
Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one
Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave, Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,
Something to cling to, and something to crave:
Love, love, Ellen, my little one!
Love indestructible, love undefiled,
ARTHUR J. MUNBY.
FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.
Farewell to his Wife.
Still forever, fare thee well;
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head sp oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again.
Would that breast by thee glanced over
Every inmost thought could show, Then thou wouldst at last discover
'T was not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee
Though it smile upon the blow, E'en its praises must offend thee
Founded on another's woe:
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
To inflict a cureless wound ?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay ; But, by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “Father !”
Though his care she must forego ?
When her lips to thine is pressed,
Think of him thy love had blessed !
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults, perchance, thou knowest,
All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
E’en my soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done-all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still; Yet the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
The dusty day is done.
The dusty day is done,
On the pagoda spire
Till all are ringing,
The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes,
EMILY C. JUDSON.