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O'er him to throw thy spells. Thy morning smile
Will sweetly haunt him through the livelong hours.
E'en 'mid the din of business, on his ear
Will steal thy tones. As thou each day for him,
So he for thee, shall think and plan and toil.
Wealth, honor, fame—whate'er of either crowns
His patient strivings, most of all for thee
His thought will prize; and nightly at thy feet,
With noble pride, he will exulting lay
The trophies he has won. Or if perchance,
In the rough contacts of a restless world,
Where thickly, oft, keen shafts of malice fly,
He hath been wounded sore; if on him fall
Misfortune's lowering shade, with doubt and dread
That tire the soul with watching, and his heart,
Firm though it be, half faints; he then to thee
Shall turn for strength and healing; and thy voice,
Thy cheering glance, thy counsels and thy prayer,
Shall nerve him all anew; with ardor fired
Shall send him to the battle's front again,
New triumphs in heroic strife to win.