Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Ellen Mary Patrick Downing 1828–69

Were I but His Own Wife

WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him,

’T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear;

I ’d chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him,

So faint and so tender his heart would but hear;

I ’d pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland,

And there at his feet I would lay them all down;

I ’d sing him the songs of our poor stricken island,

Till her heart was on fire with a love like my own.

There ’s a rose by his dwelling,—I ’d tend the lone treasure,

That he might have flowers when the summer would come;

There ’s a harp in his hall,—I would wake its sweet measure,

For he must have music to brighten his home.

Were I but his own wife, to guide and to guard him,

’T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear;

For every kind glance my whole life would award him,

In sickness I ’d soothe and in sadness I ’d cheer.

My heart is a fount welling upward forever!

When I think of my true-love, by night or by day,

That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river

Which gushes forever and sings on its way.

I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to repose in,

Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo;

O sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing,

To rise like the morning star, darling, for you!