James Gates Percival (1795–1856)

HE comes not—I have watch’d 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 wailing with my tears.

O! how I love a mother’s watch to keep,

Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers

My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix’d 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 lip,

As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;

But yet I cannot hate—O! there were hours,

When I could hang for ever on his eye,

And time who stole with silent swiftness 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 paralyzing 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 had been.