A DEAD LETTER "A cœur blessé-l'ombre et le silence." -H. DE BALZAC. I I DREW it from its china tomb;— With some thin ghost of past perfume An old, old letter,-folded still! That glimmering in the sultry haze, Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, A queer old place! You'd surely say Had planned it in Dutch William's day So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted; Still in his wonted state abode Only, as fresh young Beauty gleams So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Round which the swifts were flying; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, "A place to love in,-live,—for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray, Scant life the Fates have thrown us; But now by steam we run our race, "The time is out of joint.' Who will II "Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, "Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken StileWe 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! |