In The Athenieum Gallery

IT may be so,--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.

That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue,-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth,--that fissure in thy face, By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain; She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath, I've seen that face before.