While Mrs. N—–­ remained at P—–­ she did not want for any comfort.  Her children were clothed and her rent paid by her benevolent friends, and her house supplied with food and many comforts from the same source.  Respected and beloved by all who knew her, it would have been well had she never left the quiet asylum where for several years she enjoyed tranquillity and a respectable competence from her school; but in an evil hour she followed her worthless husband to the Southern States, and again suffered all the woes which drunkenness inflicts upon the wives and children of its degraded victims.

THE CONVICT’S WIFE

  Pale matron!  I see thee in agony steep
  The pillow on which thy young innocents sleep;
  Their slumbers are tranquil, unbroken their rest,
  They know not the grief that convulses thy breast;
  They mark not the glance of that red, swollen eye,
  That must weep till the fountain of sorrow is dry;
  They guess not thy thoughts in this moment of dread,
  Thou desolate widow, but not of the dead!

  Ah, what are thy feelings, whilst gazing on those,
  Who unconsciously smile in their balmy repose,—­
  The pangs which thy grief-stricken bosom must prove
  Whilst gazing through tears on those pledges of love,
  Who murmur in slumber the dear, cherish’d name
  Of that sire who has cover’d his offspring with shame,—­
  Of that husband whom justice has wrench’d from thy side
  Of the wretch, who the laws of his country defied?

  Poor, heart-broken mourner! thy tears faster flow,
  Time can bring no oblivion to banish thy woe;
  The sorrows of others are soften’d by years. 
  Ah, what now remains for thy portion but tears? 
  Anxieties ceaseless, renew’d day by day,
  While thy heart yearns for one who is ever away. 
  No hope speeds thy thoughts as they traverse the wave
  To the far-distant land of the exile and slave.

  And those children, whose birth with such rapture was hail’d,
  When the holiest feelings of nature prevail’d,
  And the bright drops that moisten’d the father’s glad cheek
  Could alone the deep transport of happiness speak;
  When he turn’d from his first-born with glances of pride,
  In grateful devotion to gaze on his bride,
  The loved and the loving, who, silent with joy,
  Alternately gazed from the sire to his boy.

  Ah! what could induce the young husband to fling
  Love’s garland away in life’s beautiful spring,
  To scatter the roses Hope wreath’d for her brow
  In the dust, and abandon his partner to woe? 
  The wine-cup can answer.  The Bacchanal’s bowl
  Corrupted life’s chalice, and poison’d his soul. 
  It chill’d the warm heart, added fire to the brain,
  Gave to pleasure and passion unbridled the rein;
  Till the gentle endearments of children and wife
  Only roused the fell demon to anger and strife.