A Dead Letter.

"Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait

Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile-
We can go round and catch them at the Gate,
All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile;
Dear Prue won't look, and Father he 'll go on,
And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John!

"John, she's so smart,- with every Ribbon new,
Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy:

As proud as proud; and has the Vapours too,
Just like My Lady;-calls poor Sam a Boy,
And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on
Till he's past Thirty. . . I know better, John!

"My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you;

And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through.

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See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone!

Look in this corner, mind you find it, John!”

III.

This was the matter of the note,

A long-forgot deposit,

Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat,

Deep in a fragrant closet,

Piled with a dapper Dresden world,

Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,

Bonzes with squat legs undercurled,

And great jars filled with roses.

Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed!

You had no thought or presage

Into what keeping you dismissed

Your simple old-world message!

A Dead Letter.

A reverent one. Though we to-day

Distrust beliefs and powers,

The artless, ageless things you say

Are fresh as May's own flowers,

Starring some pure primeval spring,
Ere Gold had grown despotic,--

Ere Life was yet a selfish thing,

Or Love a mere exotic!

I need not search too much to find
Whose lot it was to send it,

That feel upon me yet the kind,

Soft hand of her who penned it ;

And see, through two score years of smoke,

In by-gone, quaint apparel,

Shine from yon time-black Norway oak

The face of Patience Caryl,—

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The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed;

The gray gown, primly flowered;

The spotless, stately coif whose crest

Like Hector's horse-plume towered;

And still the sweet half-solemn look

Where some past thought was clinging,

As when one shuts a serious book

To hear the thrushes singing.

I kneel to you! Of those you were,
Whose kind old hearts grow mellow,

Whose fair old faces grow more fair
As Point and Flanders yellow;

Whom some old store of garnered grief,

Their placid temples shading,

Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf

With tender tints of fading.