It is not one week’s anguish
That can have changed her so;
Joy has not died here lately,
Struck down by one quick blow;
But cruel months have needed
Their long relentless chain,
To teach that shrinking manner
Of helpless, hopeless pain.

V.

The struggle was scarce over
Last Christmas Eve had brought: 
The fibres still were quivering
Of the one wounded thought,
When Herbert—­who, unconscious,
Had guessed no inward strife—­
Bade her, in pride and pleasure,
Welcome his fair young wife.

VI.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling,
Although his eyes were dim,
Thank’d God he thus could pay her
The care she gave to him. 
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 nobler 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.