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Dear Charles,—“In haste”—no doubt. And so you
cry peccavi! Very well I will let you off; although like
the retreating Parthian you send back an arrow or two in
your flight. You have improved also in modesty as much
as in generosity; and your note is quite a multum in parvo.
Pray, did you learn modesty from the writing masters, as well
as penmanship—many of those professors can teach manners
as well as writing. As for myself, I write as well as I can;
and considering that I have done all my letters with about
three quills, it would be easy for a stranger to form a rational
conjecture about the excellence of my chirography, without
your aid.

But to business. As to the letters—what an idea! Charles?
Would you really publish fiddle-faddle? I have marked
you—now mark me;—if my letters are opened to the public,
then the public may pay the postage! Do you take? So
Mr. Keen does not get them, at least pro bono. And if he
wait till we pay to have them appear, he will live beyond
Tithonus.

Pray, who is Mr. Keen? Has he a pointed nose, or an
edge to his tongue? Both are essential to a sagacious critic;
and if well furnished with such tools, he may cut and thrust
as keenly as

As to the verse, that you may have for the gathering.

210

Flowers are made “to waste their sweetness on the desert
air.” Our publications are perfectly redolent from full rose
beds, where grows the article in exuberance and variety, enchanting
and bewildering—some wild, some tame—some red,
some white, and some of no color at all. Plant my beauties
among the rest; although I have had them on hand so long,
that to me they have become very oddly deprived of an elegance
and perfume they seemed once to have. At all events
their sublimity has evaporated. As they are intended for
one reading only in Keen's magazine, perhaps, they will bear
that. Then let them pass for dry leaves.

Inclosed, or rather appended, are “two bricks” from my
store; judge from them whether our poetic doings are fit for
your pages.

STANZAS,

On witnessing some young girls at a Boarding-School, danoing to the
sound of a Flute, played by the Music Teacher; while they affectionately
kissed each other, and shed tears in prospect of their final
separation.

Enchantment rais'd, 'mid wastes of life, the scene!
Oasis-like, where cool and od'rous breeze
Fans brow of fainting trav'ler, on the green
By moss-crown'd fount reclin'd; the whisp'ring trees
The while touch kissing leaves, and golden wings
Flash bright, as warble back from echo rings!
With noiseless step, through mazy dance, and arms
Alternate wreath'd 'round airy forms, sprites move
O'er elfin meads, to sweet Arcadian charms
Of sylvan reed; and nymphs, with lips of love
To lips of Houris, nectar'd dews impart,
While heart responsive throbs to sister heart.
Saloon, with portraits from the touch divine,
And statues chisel'd by that skill! Can pride
Of pictur'd canvass, sculptur'd stone, with thine
Compare? In blush of youth, see! at our side
Breathes nature's self! Her joy and hope, her tear
And voice, her grace and beauty, all are here!
Oh matchless fair! when science lights the mind,
And virtue guards the path; when, like wrought gold
To circled gem, music and arts refin'd

211

Add grace to beauty! Ne'er can joys be told
That cluster thick around the household life,
Where such are lov'd,—friend, sister, mother, wife!
Sweet scene, with lovely flow'rets here, adieu!
Conflict and toil, along life's arid plains,
Reluctant, yet refresh'd, we seek anew;
The battle fought, the vict'ry won, remains,
In that far land beyond the gorgeous West,
Where sunset shows the curtain'd gate—a rest!

TO A LADY OF THE SOUTH,

Who, in her smile, look, and voice, recalled the departed Anna.

Smile!—Maid of the orange bower,
Where the sunny land teems,
Fragrant with its fruit and flower!—
From the hazy past, gleams
Vision forth of rosy hue,
Round a sainted form shed!—
'Tis she of the bosom true!
Smiles the dear one, long dead!
Look!—Maid of the isle-girt coast!—
Eyes of heav'nly blue shine,
Angel's mid the seraph host!
In the by-gone hours, thine
Ravish'd thro' my deepest heart,
On the joyous morn wed,
Sudden ere the eve to part!—
Looks the dear one, long dead!
Speak!—Maid of the sea-side home!
Voice of early love's day,
Thrilling, as when wont to roam,
Where the silver moon lay
Pictur'd in the dark lake's wave,
Ere that Indian shaft sped!—
Hark! from her bloody wood's grave
Speaks the dear one, long dead!
Stay!—Maid of the sylph-like form!
Maid of magic voice, stay!
Spell entrancing, vivid, warm,
Soft, embodied!—Oh! stay!—
Vision, at the word farewell,
Like an empty dream's fled!—
Ever in my heart she'll dwell
With the dear one, long dead!