THE LETTER
What is she writing?
Watch her now,
How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful
brow
Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping,
shade the light,
She puts them quick aside,
Nor knows that band of crystals
bright,
Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken
dress,
Falls glittering at her
feet;
Unmarked it falls, for she
no less
Pursues her labour sweet.
The very loveliest hour that
shines,
Is in that deep blue sky;
The golden sun of June declines,
It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed
gate,
The white road, far away,
In vain for her light footsteps
wait,
She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of
glass
Close by that lady's chair,
From thence, to slopes of
messy grass,
Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and
spicy bloom
Around the threshold grow;
Their leaves and blossoms
shade the room
From that sun's deepening
glow.
Why does she not a moment
glance
Between the clustering flowers,
And mark in heaven the radiant
dance
Of evening's rosy hours?
O look again! Still
fixed her eye,
Unsmiling, earnest, still,
And fast her pen and fingers
fly,
Urged by her eager will.
Her soul is in th'absorbing
task;
To whom, then, doth she
write?
Nay, watch her still more
closely, ask
Her own eyes' serious light;
Where do they turn, as now
her pen
Hangs o'er th'unfinished
line?
Whence fell the tearful
gleam that then
Did in their dark spheres
shine?
The summer-parlour looks
so dark,
When from that sky you turn,
And from th'expanse of that
green park,
You scarce may aught discern.
Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain
rare,
O'er flower-stand, couch,
and vase,
Sloped, as if leaning on
the air,
One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you
may not see
Distinct, what form defines
The clouded mass of mystery
Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to
shade
Your eyes now faintly trace
A stalwart form, a massive
head,
A firm, determined face.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt
cheek
A brow high, broad, and
white,
Where every furrow seems
to speak
Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god? I cannot
tell;
Her eye a moment met
Th'impending picture, then
it fell
Darkened and dimmed and
wet.
A moment more, her task
is done,
And sealed the letter lies;
And now, towards the setting
sun
She turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder
not,
For by the inscription see
In what a strange and distant
spot
Her heart of hearts must
be!
Three seas and many a league
of land
That letter must pass o'er,
Ere read by him to whose
loved hand
'Tis sent from England's
shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain
Her husband, loved though
stern;
She, 'mid that smiling English
scene,
Weeps for his wished return. |
