Poems (Truesdell)/Reply to Byrona

by Helen Truesdell

REPLY TO BYRONA.

How shall I thank thee? not with words;—
 These burning tears can speak,—
This bitter agony of heart,—
 This blanching of the cheek.

For thou hast touched a mournful chord,
 That vibrates every hour,
With all a poet's gentle skill,—
 A woman's gentle power.

Thou'st brought 'me back to other days,—
 The tender and the good,
Who's sleeping in his silent home,
 'Midst woodland solitude.

But not more lonely is the grave
 Of him for whom I pine,
Than are these faded hopes which still
 Round early memories twine.

Ten years! ten long and weary years,
 Passed like a scroll away,
Since last I stood upon that spot,
 Upon that fatal day.

I'm gazing on a manly form,
 And on a manly face,
And clasped, with all a husband's love,
 In one long, fond embrace.

And words of tenderness are breathed—
 Of happiness and home,
And promises that ne'er again,
 From that dear ark he'd roam.

Ah, well didst thou define each thought,
 That dwelt in that fond breast!
For when apart from those he loved,
 His spirit found no rest.

But back again lie would have come,
 To quiet every fear,
And with his tender, loving tones,
 His household band to cheer.

But though we looked with anxious hearts,
 And tearful eyes, 'twas vain;
Relentless death had severed us,—
 We never met again.

Now thanks, kind stranger, for each word,
 Each thought, that thou hast penned,
And thanks for all thy sympathy,
 My loved and gifted friend.