POETRY.
A PORTRAIT.
(After Pope.)
CI WHEN a Wife at last begins to see Her Husband's not the man he seemed to be,
Brave, tender, chivalrous, heroic, pure, But half a tyrant, half an epicure; Sharp-tongued if thwarted in his slightest whim, As if the world were all arranged for him; In converse commonplace, in habits gross, Luxurious, idle, querulous, morose ;— As this blurred portrait proves itself the Real, Effacing, flouting, her adored Ideal, What wonder if, in dear defeat of hope, She turns an atheist or a misanthrope; Arraigns the Powers that mocked her maiden prayer, And e'en in motherhood finds fresh despair; Still, as she feels her own poor life undone, Fears to revive the Father in the Son ; With wistful terror scans the baby face And dreads to read th' hereditary grace ; Marks his sweet eyes, those eyes of heavenly blue, Which seem to say, "If false, then nothing's true," Then murmurs, "Gracious God, will he be traitor too?"
Who but must weep if ouch a Wife there be ? Who would not shudder if his own were she ?
The author of this poem neglected to enclose his name
and address. We trust that he will make good his Omission,— E. Spectator.]
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