Part 9 (2/2)

This fresh bright life would bring her A new and joyous fate-- O Bertha, check the murmur That cries, Too late! too late!

VII.

Too late! Could she have known it A few short weeks before, That his life was completed, And needing hers no more, She might--O sad repining!

What ”might have been,” forget; ”It was not,” should suffice us To stifle vain regret.

VIII.

He needed her no longer, Each day it grew more plain; First with a startled wonder, Then with a wondering pain.

Love: why, his wife best gave it; Comfort: durst Bertha speak?

Counsel: when quick resentment Flush'd on the young wife's cheek.

IX.

No more long talks by firelight Of childish times long past, And dreams of future greatness Which he must reach at last; Dreams, where her purer instinct With truth unerring told Where was the worthless gilding, And where refined gold.

X.

Slowly, but surely ever, Dora's poor jealous pride, Which she call'd love for Herbert, Drove Bertha from his side; And, spite of nervous effort To share their alter'd life, She felt a check to Herbert, A burden to his wife.

XI.

This was the least; for Bertha Fear'd, dreaded, _knew_ at length, How much his nature owed her Of truth, and power, and strength; And watch'd the daily failing Of all his n.o.bler part: Low aims, weak purpose, telling In lower, weaker art.

XII.

And now, when he is dying, The last words she could hear Must not be hers, but given The bride of one short year.

The last care is another's; The last prayer must not be The one they learnt together Beside their mother's knee.

XIII.

Summon'd at last: she kisses The clay-cold stiffening hand; And, reading pleading efforts To make her understand, Answers, with solemn promise, In clear but trembling tone, To Dora's life henceforward She will devote her own.

XIV.

Now all is over. Bertha Dares not remain to weep, But soothes the frightened Dora Into a sobbing sleep.

The poor weak child will need her: O, who can dare complain, When G.o.d sends a new Duty To comfort each new Pain!

NUMBER THREE.

I.

The House is all deserted In the dim evening gloom, Only one figure pa.s.ses Slowly from room to room; And, pausing at each doorway, Seems gathering up again Within her heart the relics Of bygone joy and pain.

II.

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