“Were I but his own wife”

Ellen Mary Downing (1828–1869)

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;

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,

’T is 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 for ever,

When I think of my true-love, by night or by day;

That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river

Which gushes for ever 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—

Oh, sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing,

To rise like the morning star, darling for you!