The Letter
What is she writing? Watch her now,How fast her fingers move!How eagerly her youthful browIs 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 lessPursues 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 glassClose by that lady’s chair,From thence, to slopes of messy grass,Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloomAround the threshold grow;Their leaves and blossoms shade the roomFrom that sun’s deepening glow.Why does she not a moment glanceBetween the clustering flowers,And mark in heaven the radiant danceOf 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, askHer own eyes’ serious light;Where do they turn, as now her penHangs o’er th’unfinished line?Whence fell the tearful gleam that thenDid 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 seeDistinct, what form definesThe clouded mass of mysteryYon broad gold frame confines.But look again; inured to shadeYour eyes now faintly traceA stalwart form, a massive head,A firm, determined face.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheekA brow high, broad, and white,Where every furrow seems to speakOf mind and moral might.Is that her god? I cannot tell;Her eye a moment metTh’impending picture, then it fellDarkened and dimmed and wet.A moment more, her task is done,And sealed the letter lies;And now, towards the setting sunShe turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder not,For by the inscription seeIn what a strange and distant spotHer heart of hearts must be!Three seas and many a league of landThat letter must pass o’er,Ere read by him to whose loved hand’Tis sent from England’s shore.Remote colonial wilds detainHer husband, loved though stern;She, ‘mid that smiling English scene,Weeps for his wished return.