Part 14 — MY LOVED—MY OWN.

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BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

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Nor the hush of the shadowy night.

Nor the glare of the busy day,

Nor the many cares of the world, from thee

Ever lure my thoughts away.

In dreams thou art by my side,

With thy babe, a rose unblown,

And thy voice for me breathes melody,

My loved—my own!

The page of the laureled bard

Thrills me not, since thou art gone;

And from earth below, and the sky above

Is an olden charm withdrawn.

Come back with thy beaming smile,

For my heart is mournful grown—

Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries,

My loved—my own!

I have prayed for a spell whereby

I might question the wind of thee,

And learn if thy cheek is flushed with health,

Or wan, while afar from me:

And I start when the casement jars,

And I hear a hollow moan,

But the churlish gale will tell no tale,

My loved—my own!

Not sooner the noon-parched flower

Would revive in summer rain,

Than a glimpse of thee and thy laughing boy

Would my sick heart heal again.

We have been, since wed, like leaves

By the breath of Autumn blown;

But home’s green bowers may yet be ours,

My loved—my own!