Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/424

416

by the breaking waves we stood, Upon the rocky shore; The brave waves whisper’d courage, And hid with friendly roar The falt’ring words that told the tale I dared not tell before.

I ask’d, if with the priceless gift, Her love, my life she’d bless? Was it her voice, or some fair wave,— For, sooth, I scarce may guess,— Some murmuring wave, or her sweet voice, That lisp’d so sweetly “Yes.”

And then, in happy silence, too, I clasp’d her fair wee hand; And long we stood there, carelessly, While o’er the darkening land The sun set, and the fishing-boats Were sailing from the strand.

It seems not many days ago— Like yesterday,—no more, Since thus we stood, my love and I, Upon the rocky shore; But I was four-and-twenty then, And now I’m forty-four.

The lily hand is thinner now, And in her sunny hair I see some silvery lines, and on Her brow some lines of care; But, wrinkled brow, or silver locks, She’s not one whit less fair.

The fishing-boats a score of years Go sailing from the strand; The crimson sun a score of years Sets o’er the darkening land; And here to-night upon the cliff We’re standing hand-in-hand.

“My darling, there’s our eldest girl, Down on the rocks below; What’s Stanley doing by her side?” My wife says, “You should know: He’s telling her what you told me A score of years ago.”

W. L. W.