Poems by John Howard Bryant :: :: University of Virginia Library

122

Matron with the wasted form,
Withered, bowed, but not with years,
Thine hath been a path of storm—
Thine has been a vale of tears.

Where New England's hills arise,
Glorious from the ocean brine,
Thou did'st ope' thine infant eyes,
Peace and competence were thine.

There the broad green pastures lay—
There the orchard spread its bloom,
Woodland, stream, and meadow gay,
Circled round thy mountain home.

Late I saw thee but a child,
Playful, prattling, full of glee;
On thy steps a mother smiled,
Danced upon a father's knee.

Then a stately maiden grown,
Raven tresses round thy brow,
Cheeks like summer roses blown,
None more beautiful than thou.

123

Heart all innocent and gay,
Full of feeling, full of truth,
Oh, how soon hath passed away
All the glory of thy youth.

Edward sought thy hand and won thee
Generous, beautiful, and brave,
Noble Edward hath undone thee,
Who shall heal the wounds he gave.

Tempted from thy guardian side,
Pleasure's boisterous sons among,
Poisoned by the cup he died,
With a curse upon his tongue.

Then the babe upon thy bosom,
Wasting, sinking, day by day,
Like a trembling April blossom,
Passed its little life away.

One by one thy friends departed,
Father, mother, all are gone,
Thou a widow broken hearted,
Wanderest through the world alone.

Born to wealth, to honor born,
These like morning dews are fled,
Child of poverty and scorn,
Who shall stay thy sinking head?

124

Bitter tears have blanched thy cheek,
Keenest anguish wrung thy breast,
Sad and sorrowful, and weak,
Soon the grave shall give thee rest.