THE DESERTED WIFE.
HE comes not-I have watched the moon go down,
But 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 that 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 cheers
My 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-O! there were hours,
When I would hang for ever on his eye,
And time, who stole with silent sadness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then, he loved me too-my heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile.
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart!
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness-and should sickness come, and lay
Its paralysing hand upon him, then
I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep and say
How injured and how faithful I have been.
W. OSBORNE, PRINTER, CHESTER STREET, BIRKENHEAD.