« AnkstesnisTęsti »
A DEAD LETTER.
"A cœur blessé-l'ombre et le silence."
H. DE BALZAC.
DREW it from its china tomb ;—
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.
Grew in the same grim shapes; and still
The yew-trees still,
Still in his wonted state abode
Only,- -as fresh young Beauty gleams
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,
May strive to make it better;
"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!
"John, she's so smart,—with every Ribbon new, Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy;
As proud as proud; and has the Vapours too,
"My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much
why, John, your least, least Finger-touch,
This was the matter of the note,
A long-forgot deposit,
Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat,
Piled with a dapper Dresden world,—
Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed!