"'Nor any diver reach to raise
My jewel from the blue abyss;
Or could they, still I should but praise
Their work amiss.
"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet
The fair, fair hand which did the deed:
That wayward sweetness to forget
Were bitter meed.
"'No, let it lie, and let the wave
Roll over it for evermore;
Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave—
The sea her store.
"'My heart, my sometime happy heart!
And O for once let me complain,
I must forego life's better part—
Man's dearer gain.
"'I worked afar that I might rear
A peaceful home on English soil;
I labored for the gold and gear—
I loved my toil.
"'Forever in my spirit spake
The natural whisper, "Well 'twill be
When loving wife and children break
Their bread with thee!"
"'The gathered gold is turned to dross,
The wife hath faded into air,
My heart is thrown away, my loss
I cannot spare.
"'Not spare unsated thought her food—
No, not one rustle of the fold,
Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood,
Nor gleam of gold;
"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl,
Far less the drooping lashes meek;
The gracious figure, lithe and tall,
The dimpled cheek;
"'And all the wonders of her eyes,
And sweet caprices of her air,
Albeit, indignant reason cries,
Fool! have a care.