Clasp'd in her arms, with her tears on my cheek,
Her kind husband warmly grasping my hand,
In statue-like calm, I move not nor speak--
A silent machine for one purpose plann'd.
'O white little face,' she tremblingly cries,
'It cannot be yours, that white little face;
O when did you get those far-seeking eyes?
And the stillness in lieu of girlish grace?'
And looking at me she drew back alarm'd,
She felt that _something_ divided us;
She, who lived the life of the happy charm'd,
And I, who am battling with fortune thus.
Out spake her husband--'I know what to do;
Put her to bed--she will wake by-and-by--
Then let her have, in the boudoir with you,
A hot cup of tea and thorough good cry.'
As a judge in court he summ'd up the whole;
I laugh'd my first laugh since the grief began;
For I thought, this is how a woman's soul
Is held at the hands of a worthy man!
I answer'd him with a sort of a scorn--
The least little bend from a haughty height--
'I left home last evening, was here at morn,
And shall be in Liverpool long ere night.'
They were startled, eager, anxious and kind
(They had read the papers and learn'd the fact),
But they question'd not, from the touch refin'd
Of a sweet good-nature that men call tact.
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