| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
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| Were I but His Own Wife |
| | | Ellen Mary Patrick Downing (1828–69) |
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| 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, | 5 |
| 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. | |
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| There ’s a rose by his dwelling,—I ’d tend the lone treasure, | |
| That he might have flowers when the summer would come; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| In sickness I ’d soothe and in sadness I ’d cheer. | |
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| 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. | 20 |
| 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! | |
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