Relicta :: :: University of Virginia Library

I am blest with faithful servants—even now in these poor days
When they scorn the thought of service, and its simple homely ways.
Even now, true maids have help'd me with their labour and their life;
But the best of all my servants is my faithful servant-wife.

Fifty years—aye, more than fifty—has she done her best to please;
Happy in her humble calling, happy on her hand and knees:
For she loves the joys of scrubbing, blacking grates and cleaning stairs,
And she shows her love in that way, as the ladies do in theirs.

She was born for love and labour, and in her, the two are one:
Nothing checks her, nothing daunts her, till her daily work is done;
And she does it, not for wages, not for merit, but to prove
That no labour is too low to be the language of her love.

Hers is but a servant's language—deeds that find no way to words;
Yet her husband understands it, and its mute unspoken chords
Touch his heart with greater fervour, greater pleasure, greater pride,
Than if she were like a lady, seated idly at his side.

And she does sit there of evenings, when her household toils are o'er,
When she's wash'd up all the dishes, when she's clean'd the kitchen floor;
In her servant's dress she sits there, neat and tidy, fresh and clean,
And he would not change her presence for the splendours of a queen.

She has neither rank nor splendour; she was but a village maid,
Whom no blackness could make lower, nor no drudgery degrade:
She has neither silks nor jewels—she has not a single thing
That becomes a lady's station, save her golden wedding ring.

Ah, that ring! It is the token of her honour, of her fame:
For it shows that she my servant has the right to bear my name;
And our love was just as pure, since first our sweetheart days began,
As if she had been a lady, or myself a working man.