Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1836.pdf/23

Rh

Rh

His eyes grew cold—his voice grew strange— They only grew more dear. She served him meekly, anxiously, With love—half faith—half fear.

And can a fond and faithful heart Be worthless in those eyes For which it beats?—Ah! wo to those Who such a heart despise.

Poor child! what lonely days she pass’d, With nothing to recall But bitter taunts, and careless words, And looks more cold than all.

Alas! for love, that sits at home, Forsaken, and yet fond; The grief that sits beside the hearth, Life has no grief beyond.

He left her, but she followed him— She thought he could not bear When she had left her home for him, To look on her despair.

Adown the strange and mighty stream She took her lonely way; The stars at night her pilots were, As was the sun by day.

Yet mournfully—how mournfully!— The Indian look’d behind, When the last sound of voice or step Died on the midnight wind.

Yet still adown the gloomy stream She plied her weary oar; Her husband—he had left their home, And it was home no more.

She found him—but she found in vain— He spurned her from his side; He said, her brow was all too dark, For her to be his bride.