A Character

His face is truly of the Roman mould, He bears within the heart of Cato, too; Although his look may seem severe and cold, He never would be false to truth or you. And deepest feeling hides about the mouth; His soul-wind blows not always from the north, But sometimes also from the gentle south, And then, like flowers, the tender words steal forth. The light and fickle still have love to spare, If Death has taken from them even thrice; But she who has this noble’s love to wear May know it never will be given twice. Yes, whom he chooses may be always sure That no one else will ever take her place; Of his whole heart eternally secure, Less need she tremble at Death’s chilling face. And should she leave him, he will not wax weak With noisy woe, till Solace bare her breast; Not in those soft and soothing arms would seek To dim the sense of loss in childish rest. Nay! such as he, not months and years alone, Will keep the grave’s grass green, its marble white; The cherished rose will blow about the stone Till hands that plighted troth shall reunite.