ON A LETTER.
HOW beautiful! how beautiful! the dream comes back again,
As now I draw this treasure forth from where it long hath lain;
In characters, how neatly set, as I again behold,
And read, aye, read, as though thy pen the story just had told,
As though thy hand had lately traced each syllable, each word,
As though thine heart were just as warm, with sweet emotions stirred,
As when thou ours this loving strain to cheer my saddened heart,
And pointed to the only Source which could a balm impart.
As now I draw this treasure forth from where it long hath lain;
In characters, how neatly set, as I again behold,
And read, aye, read, as though thy pen the story just had told,
As though thy hand had lately traced each syllable, each word,
As though thine heart were just as warm, with sweet emotions stirred,
As when thou ours this loving strain to cheer my saddened heart,
And pointed to the only Source which could a balm impart.
The date, the present, answers this our holy Advent time,
When every heart, if tuned aright, must dwell on things sublime,
Reminding ever as it will, to earnestly implore
His pardon for the misspent time, for strength to sin no more;
When every heart, if tuned aright, must dwell on things sublime,
Reminding ever as it will, to earnestly implore
His pardon for the misspent time, for strength to sin no more;
