Ah! my child, our hearts will fail us,
When to us they strongest seem;
I can look back on those hours
As a fearful, evil dream. 
She had long despaired; what wonder
That her heart had turned to mine? 
Earthly loves are deep and tender,
Not eternal and divine!

Can I say how bright a future
Rose before my soul that day? 
Oh, so strange, so sweet, so tender—­
And I had to turn away. 
Hard and terrible the struggle,
For the pain not mine alone;
I called back my Brother’s spirit,
And I bade him claim his own.

Told her—­now I dared to do it—­
That I felt the day would rise
When he would return to gladden
My weak heart and her bright eyes. 
And I pleaded—­pleaded sternly—­
In his name, and for his sake: 
Now, I can speak calmly of it,
Then, I thought my heart would break.

Soon—­ah, Love had not deceived me,
(Love’s true instincts never err,)
Wounded, weak, escaped from prison,
He returned to me; to her. 
I could thank God that bright morning,
When I felt my Brother’s gaze,
That my heart was true and loyal,
As in our old boyish days.

Bought by wounds and deeds of daring,
Honours he had brought away;
Glory crowned his name—­my Brother’s;
Mine too!—­we were one that day. 
Since the crown on him had fallen,
“Victor in A noble strife,”
I could live and die contented
With my poor ignoble life.

Well, my darling, almost weary
Of my story?  Wait awhile;
For the rest is only joyful;
I can tell it with a smile. 
One bright promise still was left me,
Wound so close about my soul,
That, as one by one had failed me,
This dream now absorbed the whole.

“Singer of A noble poem,”—­
Ah, my darling, few and rare
Burn the glorious names of Poets,
Like stars in the purple air. 
That too, and I glory in it,
That great gift my Godfrey won;
I have my dear share of honour,
Gained by that beloved one.

One day shall my darling read it;
Now she cannot understand
All the noble thoughts, that lighten
Through the genius of the land. 
I am proud to be his brother,
Proud to think that hope was true;
Though I longed and strove so vainly,
What I failed in, he could do.

I was long before I knew it,
Longer ere I felt it so;
Then I strung my rhymes together
Only for the poor and low. 
And, it pleases me to know it,
(For I love them well indeed,)
They care for my humble verses,
Fitted for their humble need.

And, it cheers my heart to bear it,
Where the far-off settlers roam,
My poor words are sung and cherished,
Just because they speak of Home. 
And the little children sing them,
(That, I think, has pleased me best,)
Often, too, the dying love them,
For they tell of Heaven and rest.