A Poet to His Wife,

Waikato Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 1976, 7 March 1885, Page 2 (Supplement)

A Poet to His Wife,

(Thb reader of Mr. Biyant's poems will readily remember th' 3 miny Terses addressed to his wife, such ai " Oh Fairest of the Rural Miiids," written about the time of their marriage ; "Tho Future Lif»," •peculating as to the union of their spirits in the world to come ; the " Sick-Bed, " describing an illness ; "The Life That Is," rejoicing in recornry ; " Tho Twenty-iorenth of March," — the birthday of Mrs. Bryant . "October, 1866," doicriptire of her death and bunnl ; and " May I Erennig," a gentle reference to lu>r loss. But in addition to theie, as we learn from Mr. Godwin's forthcoming biography of the poet, a fragment was found among Ins papers, which recalls her memory in a TPry tender way, seven years after hpr death. The lines were unfinished and uncorreotod ; but we cannot refrain from giving them as they were written — dated " Roslyn, 1873.") The morn hath not the glory that it wore, Nor doth the day no beautifully die, j Since I can call thee to my side no more, , To gaze upon the sky. For thy dear hand, with each return of spring, I bought in sunny nooks the floweri she gave ; I Beck them still, and sorrowfully bring The choicest to tby grave. Hero, whore I sit alone, is sometimes heard, From the great world, a whisper of my name, Joined, haply, to some kind, commending word, By thoao whose praise is fame. And [then, as if I thought thou still wert nigh, I turn me, half forgetting thou art dead, To read the gentle gladness in thin* ey« That once I might hare read. 1 turn, but see thee not ; before my eyei The image of & hill-side mound appears, Where all of thee tbac passed not to the ekies Was laid with bitter tears. And I, whose thoughts go back to happier days That fled with theo, would gladly now resign All that the world can giro of fame and praise For one sweet look of thine. Thus, ever, when I read of generous deeds, Such words as thou didst once delight to hear, My heart ia wrung with anguish as it bleeds To think thou art not near. And now that I ctn talk no more with thea Of ancient friends and days too fair to last, A bitterness blonds with tbe memory Of all that happy past. Oh, when I — The Century.