ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR B. HOUGHTON.
RELIC strange, from my bachelor hoards,
You show me with crimsoning face;
A little thimble of silver fine-
Art thou not wondering, bride of mine,
Whose finger it used to grace?
Hath it a history? Yes, ah! yes,
For she who that relic wore,
Every pulse of my soul could stir
With a look or a touch, while I, to her
Was a cousin-a boy-no more.
She wedded. And I, a frequent guest,
Flung on a couch with my books-
With jealous pangs I could scarcely hide,
Have watched his gestures of love and pride,
And the answering joy in her looks.
And better I liked to see her sit
Alone in her easy chair,
Her mien more pensive, her cheek more pale,
Busied with work, that was telling a tale
Of a new-known pleasure and care.
Or work forgotten-her dark eyes closed-
Her fancy with sweet dreams rife,
Of a tiny form by her arm caressed
A baby face to her bosom pressed-
The mother, as well as the wife.
'Twas thus I saw them-mother and babe-
But shrouded with flow'rets fair;
Unconscious both, as they calmly slept,
Of the bitter tears that he and I wept-
Of the long, long vigils, we sadly kept—
Kept in our love and despair!
From the work her fingers would touch no more
I took that relic alone:
But your cheek is wet, and your lip is pale
I should not have told this sorrowful tale-
Go, hide the relic, my own!