The Home Valentine

Still fond and true, though wedded long,
The bard, at eve retired,
Sat smiling o'er the annual song
His home's dear Muse inspired:
And as he traced her virtues now
With all love's vernal glow,
A gray hair from his bended brow,
Like faded leaf from autumn bough,
Fell to the page below.
He paused, and with a mournful mien
The sad memento raised,
And long upon its silvery sheen
In pensive silence gazed:
And if a sigh escaped him then,
It were not strange to say;
For fancy's favourites are but men;
And who e'er felt the stoic when
First conscious of decay?
Just then a soft cheek press'd his own
With beauty's fondest tear,
And sweet words breathed in sweeter tone
Thus murmur'd in his ear:
Ah, sigh not, love to mark the trace
Of time's unsparing wand!
It was not manhood's outward grace,
No charm of faultless form or face,
That won my heart and hand.
Lo! dearest, mid these matron locks,
Twin-fated with thine own,
A dawn of silvery lustre mocks
The midnight they have known:
But time to blighted cheek and tress
May all his snows impart;
Yet shalt thou feel in my caress
No chill of waning tenderness,
No winter of the heart!
Forgive me, dearest Beatrice!
The grateful bard replied,
As nearer and with tenderer kiss
He pressed her to his side:
Forgive the momentary tear
To manhood's faded prime;
I should have felt, hadst thou been near,
Our hearts indeed have nought to fear
From all the frosts of time!