I felt I must fly, weak as I was, to where she was lying; perhaps
'Twas a merciful Providence after all, that I took a relapse.
Oh, the weary months that crawled slowly by at a tortoise creeping pace,
I seeming to hear the dash of the waves, that hid a beloved face.
Time passed, and I learnt that the roaring sea was not the treacherous
thing.
'Twas not the dumb wave, but a living man that turned to Winter my Spring,
And Aimee had married another and sought the Australian shore.
She must have thought I was dead, Heaven help me, betwixt us ocean's roar.
I have sometimes wondered if gold is ever aught but a curse,
No, that's wrong--if honestly gained, no harm in a well filled purse,
But I often think of the little home standing there by the sea,
For far off merry England, the home planned for Aimee and me.
Oh to have toiled for her from dawn till the dews of restful night,
Her smile my guerdon, her love my prize, her heart so happy and bright.
Often I wonder if peace and love have sheltered her with their wings;
Of wealth I suppose they have plenty, and the comforts money brings,
For Montrose was the heir to a large amount of money I know,
And he certainly was not the kind of man to let his money go.
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