OT hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
Nor moments between sighs and tears, 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 
To sober joys and softer woes, 
Can make my heart or fancy flee 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 
Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
In maiden bloom and matron wit : 
Fair, gentle as when first I sued, 
Ye seem, but of sedater mood. 
Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons and one fair daughter sweet ; 
And time, and care, and birthtime woes 
Have dimmed thine eye and paled thy rose ; 
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
All that me charms, of tale and song; 
And still ’tis sweet, to choose and twine 
A garland for these locks of thine. 
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow and woods are green. 
At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought ; 
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light; 
And hope, that decks the peasant’s bower, 
Shines like the rainbow through the shower ; 
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother’s heart shine in thine eye ; 
And high resolve and purpose meek, 
Speak of thee more than words can speak : 
I think the wedded wife of mine 
The best of all that’s not divine. 
A. Cunningham. 
