And went and kissed his wife, and bade
Her speedy well, and all things seemed good;
And in his ear a sweet, soft voice foretold:
"Thine is a happy lot of years to come,
All full of tranquil and domestic bliss;
Thy paths are by the ways of harmony,
And a fair train of love shall ever tend,
With all her blessings largely to bestow,
Upon thy head as dew in Summer night."
Again he went unto his wife, to see
How quickly she got well and how she fared
For he was weary to be wanting her,
And longed to see her graceful form again
Come quickly here and there about his home.
But lo! he saw the hand of sickness had
Upon his loved one laid a ruthless hold,
And that the lustre of her eye had gone,
And that her voice had lost its brightest chords.
Then day and night he watched her, and bestowed
Of every tendence he could think to give,
Which would allay the fever, or imply
Relief awhile unto her aching head.
But day and night he saw her further wane,
Her life-stream ebbing every hour away;
Until at last he saw her wane and die,
Beheld her sink into the arms of death.
Then woeful was the scene, to see him bend
Upon the lifeless form in floods of woe,
Whose bitter torrents overwhelmed long;
And much he wept in full and heavy tears,
Till they who saw it thought his heart would break;
And for long hours he gazed upon her form,
Nor could conceive that she was truly dead.
And all the household wept, and many came
To give him comfort, but he turned away,
And could not hearken to their kindly words,
And rose and left the house to wander out,
And passed the old domestic at the door,
Who dare not question where his master went.
And to the woods he wandered. It was night,
And long the warblers of the dale had sung
Their last glad anthem to the dying day,
And gone to slumber in the sylvan bowers
Until the dawning of another morn.
And on he wandered, but he knew not whence,
For all his thoughts were maddened and confused.
Then to the bower he came, where oft in time
But lately gone he had his loved one led,
And with the fairest flowers bedecked her hair.
He paused awhile, and, with a heavy sigh,
Spake to the flowers, "O ye fair flowers, receive
The lamentations of a widowed heart.
Thy gay perfections have no further charms;
And those sweet odors are diffused now
As fragrance is unto a wasted land,
Since she who loved them has for ever gone."
Then on he pressed into the deepest depths
Of the still woods, his mournful story tol