XXXI.
THE PENCILLED LETTER.
“I am not o'ermuch charm'd with this same dwelling:
How poor, to the rich memory of the past!
I have thy vow, that when night's shades are cast
Over the world, thy far heart shall be swelling
With thoughts of me and love. I need not tell
How, dreaming, or wide-waking, I shall be
For ever with thee. Ceaselessly I dwell
On the drear pangs of utter desolation
Which I must feel when thou art gone from me.
And, oh! I pant with fearful expectation
Of our next greeting. Dearest! love me still:
I know new objects must thy spirit fill;
But yet, I pray thee, do not love me less.
This write I where I dress.—Bless thee! for ever, bless!”
THE ANSWER.
1
Here in my lone abode again I sit,
With a tired heart, for ever toward thee yearning;
And visions of thee, in all aspects, flit
Before my sleepy eyes, that cannot sleep,
Kept open by my troubled mind's discerning.
Through the long night sad vigils did I keep;
And spectres of thee, and imaginings,
Were in me and around me. I did weep,
To think on all thy love; and all the grief
Which must disturb thy spirit in its springs,
After our hurried parting, when relief
Of tears or sighs was by our state forbidden;
And our one heart was as a folded leaf
In which oracular characters are hidden.
2
But, then; the thought—the deep, prophetic thought,
That in this being we should meet again,
Did still the turbulent sorrow of my soul;
And my sweet hopes kiss'd thine—but had no fear;
For a triumphant flag did passion rear,
That stream'd into the future, glory-fraught!
I cannot cease to love thee: though the chain
Of this world is around me, its controul
Is feeble; for the powers of love and song
Wave a magician's wand above my spirit,
And sway me with a talisman divine
Which I resist not: others may inherit
My heart's wild perfume; but the flower is thine.
This read where thou didst write.—All blessings round thee throng!
