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1817–1907

TO MY WIFE,

Thomas Cowherd

A thousand joys, my darling wife, Be thine on this our marriage day! And now I'll sing; for such a life As we have led deserves a lay

Fresh-gushing from a heart like mine — By thee well known to be sincere. O, where are charms compared with thine? Which, after years of toil appear

More fresh and fair, Though much of care Has fallen daily to thy share. On me old Time has marked his flight —

My outward frame doth tell me this; But still, sweet dove, my heart's as light As when at first I found the bliss Of Ellen's love in silken bands.

And what the future has in store I know not, but my soul expands Assured thou lov'st me more and more. This rapturous thought

With blessings fraught By gold could never have been bought. But love — such love as we now feel Ten thousand ills can face and foil,

And passing years afresh reveal — We better are for cure and toil! I would not then my lot exchange For one where pampered luxury

The hearts of man and wife estrange, And all is insincerity. A lot like this, Devoid of bliss,

Dear wife, may we forever miss! What though when let but forty-three I sober Grandpa have become? With thee, my Ellen, yes, with thee

I can enjoy our humble home; And the dear children to us given, With those left by my first loved spouse, Can by God's blessing make a heaven

For me in yet a poorer house! The world dreams not That in our cot We pure, substantial joys have got.

As thus I sing in gladsome strain Of my unmatched felicity, There comes an almost endless train From the deep founts of Memory,

Of pleasing pictures which retain Poetic colors lich and rare. Yet fearing they might make me vain, I breathe to God this fervent prayer:

Lord, shield me well, From potent spell Of syren Pleasures, and Pride quell! Oh, let us humbly now renew

Our vows to God, my sweetest love! He then will shed His grace like dew Upon us all, and bid the Dove Of steadfast Peace assure our souls.

Thus may we battle on in life, And as each season forward rolls Feel stronger for the daily strife Until at last

Our lot is cast With those who into heaven have passed.

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TO MY WIFE, · Thomas Cowherd · Poetry Cove