O, never say that Pan is dead, Still listen as men used to do. A Dead Letter. "A cœur blessé—l'ombre et le silence."-H. DE Balzac. I. I DREW it from its china tomb; It came out feebly scented 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 So trim it was. The yew-trees still With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes; and still 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, Could find some god to stretch the gray, Scant life that Fates have thrown us; "But now by steam we run our race, "The time is out of joint.' Who will, May strive to make it better; For me, this warm old window-sill, II. Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, And Mother's storing Apples,-Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam: But we shall meet before a Week is gone,"'Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John! "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! Ribbon new, every "John, she's so smart,—with 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. 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,- Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed, A reverent one. Though we to-day Starring some pure primeval spring, I need not search too much to find That feel upon me yet the kind, And see, through two score years of smoke, Shine from yon time-black Norway oak, The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed; |