There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,[1]
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend—the skies might pour,
But there thou wert—and still wouldst be30
Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For Heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind—and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken—thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel—but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.40
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found and still are fixed in thee;—
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert—ev'n to me.
END OF VOL. III.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
- ↑
And thou wast as a lovely Tree
Whose branch unbroke but gently bent
Still waved with fond Fidelity.—[Copy C. H.]
