The Poet To His Wife.

("' toi, toujours ' toi.") [XXXIX., 1823] To thee, all time to thee, My lyre a voice shall be! Above all earthly fashion, Above mere mundane rage, Your mind made it my passion To write for noblest stage. Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her - she Was sister of my soul immortal, free! My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, When green hoped not to gray to run its course; She was enthron'd Virtue under heaven's dome, My idol in the shrine of curtained home.