Poems (Cook)/Song of the dying old Man to his young Wife

by Eliza Cook

SONG OF THE DYING OLD MAN TO HIS YOUNG WIFE.

Kate, there's a trembling at my heart, a coldness on my brow,
My sight is dim, my breath is faint, I feel I'm dying now;
But ere my vision fadeth quite, ere all of strength be o'er;
Oh! let me look into thy face and press thy hand once more.

I would my latest glance should fall on what I hold most dear;
But, ah! thy cheek is wet again—wipe, wipe away the tear.
Such tears of late have often gemm'd thy drooping eyelids' fringe;
Such tears of late have wash'd away thy young cheek's ruddy tinge.

I brought thee from a simple home to be an old man's bride;
Thou wert the altar where I laid affection, joy, and pride;
My heart's devotion, like the sun, shone forth with glowing power,
And kept its brightest glory rays to mark its setting hour.

I brought thee from a simple home, when early friends had met;
And something fill'd thy farewell tone that whisper'd of regret:
Oh! could I wonder—when you left warm spirits like your own,
To dwell upon far distant earth, with Age and Wealth alone.

I gazed with holy fondness on thy meek, retiring eye,
Soft in its beaming as the first fair star of evening's sky;
I mark'd the dimpled mirth around thy sweet lips when they smiled;
And while I loved thee as a bride, I blest thee as a child.

But, oh thy young and ardent soul could not respond to mine;
My whiten'd hairs seemed mock'd by those rich, sunny curls of thine;
And though thy gentle faith was kind as woman's faith can be;
'Twas as the spring flower clinging round the winter-blighted tree.

My speech is faltering and low—the world is fading fast—
The sands of life are few and slow—this day will be my last:
I've something for thine ear—bend close—list to my failing word;
Lay what I utter to thy soul, and start not when 'tis heard.

There's one who loves thee—though his love has never lived in speech:
He worships as a devotee the star he cannot reach;
He strives to mask his throbbing breast, and hide its burning glow—
But I have pierced the veil and seen the struggling pulse below.

Nay, speak not: I alone have been the selfish and unwise;
Young hearts will nestle with young hearts, young eyes will meet young eyes;
And when I saw his earnest glance turn hopelessly away,
I thank'd the hand of Time that gave me warning of decay.

I question not thy bosom, Kate—I cast upon thy name
No memory of jealous fear, no lightest shade of blame:
I know that he has loved thee long, with deep and secret truth,
I know he is a fitting one to bless thy trusting youth.

Weep not for me with bitter grief; I would but have thee tell
That he who bribed thee to his care has cherish'd thee right well.
I give thee to another, Kate,—and may that other prove
As grateful for the blessing held, as doting in his love.

Bury me in the churchyard where the dark yew-branches wave,
And promise thou wilt come sometimes to weed the old man's grave!
'Tis all I ask! I'm blind—I'm faint—take, take my parting breath—
I die within thy arms, my Kate, and feel no sting of death.