Were I but his own Wife

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