s,
'The Life that Is.' Such was our last meeting with our dear Mrs.
Bryant. I never saw her again, but the thought of her dwells like a
sweet strain of music amid the varied notes of human life, and will
be ours again when 'beyond these voices there is peace.' The union
between Mr. and Mrs. Bryant was a poem of the tenderest rhythm. Any
of us who remember Mr. Bryant's voice when he said 'Frances' will
join in his hope that she kept the same beloved name in heaven. I
remember alluding to those exquisite lines, 'The Future Life,' to
Mrs. Bryant, and her replying, 'Oh, my dear, I am always sorry for
any one who sees me after reading those lines, they must be so
disappointed.' Beatrice and Laura have not received such tributes
from their poets, for Mrs. Bryant's husband was her poet and her
lover at seventy as at seventeen."

After Mrs. Bryant had been dead seven years, Mr. Bryant wrote the
following poem, showing how tenderly he cherished her memory:--

The morn hath not the glory that it wore,
Nor doth the day so beautifully die,
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 sought in sunny nooks the flowers she gave;
I seek them still, and sorrowfully bring
The choicest to thy grave.

Here, where I sit alone, is sometimes heard,
From the great world, a whisper of my name,
Joined, haply, to some kind commending word,
By those 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 thine eye
That once I might have read.

I turn, but see thee not; before my eyes
The image of a hillside mound appears,
Where all of thee that passed not to the skies
Was laid with bitter tears.

And I, whose thoughts go back to happier days
That fled with thee, would gladly now resign
All that the world can give of fame or 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 is wrung with anguish as it bleeds
To think thou art not near.

And now that I can talk no more with thee
Of ancient friends and days too fair to last,
A bitterness blends with the memory
Of all that happy past.

That past had, indeed, been happy