The Meeting. Bitter was the tale I dreaded, Grief of heart for evermore, When, from years of weary travel, Landing on my native shore, I sought out the ancient village And the well-remembered door. Long it was since any tidings Reached me wandering o’er the wave, And my soul for certain knowledge, Though it held a curse, did crave— Though the melancholy answer Only echoed of the grave. I had left three little children In the years of long ago— But past joy is present sorrow ; Painfully the seasons flow— Who am I to be delivered From the broken hopes below ? I had left an angel woman Guardian of the tender three— Is she dead or is she living ? Is her spirit true to me ? Well I know that many winters Cannot change her constancy. And I sought the well-loved cottage, Skirted by the poplar tall ; Waited by the garden-wicket, Listening to the waterfall ; And I caught the pleasant odour Of the jasmine on the wall. Then I entered, and she knew me, And sank fainting in my arms. On her face I saw imprinted Midnight watchings, pain, alarms. And her children clustered round me, Undivided, free from harms. P. S. Worsley .