Poetry.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume XI, Issue 1260, 27 January 1883, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

A POET S PARTING THOUGHT. These lines of Motherwell, —so touching in their simple pathos, and so unselfish in the calm resignation of their close, —were given to a friend by the author, a day or two before his decease. When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life’s fever o’er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping That I’m no more ? Will there be any heart st I’d memory keeping Of heretofore ? When tire great winds through leafless forests rushing, Sad music make; When the swollen streams, or crag and gully gushing, Like full hearts break, Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing. Mourn for thy sake ? When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining. Burst through that clay,— Will there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day ? When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, On that low mound, And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary, Its loneness crown’d, — Will there be then one, versed in misery’s story, Pacing it round ?— It may be so, —but this is selfish sorrow To ask such meed, — A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, From hearts that bleed, The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow Shall never need. Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, Thou gentle heart; And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start; It were in vain, —for time hath long been knelling;— Sad one, depart!