ON A PACKET OF LETTERS.
“To-day”—Oh! not to-day shall sound
Thy mild and gentle voice;
Nor yet “to-morrow” will it bid
My heart rejoice.
But one, one fondly treasured thing
Is left me ’mid decay,
This record, hallowed with thy thoughts
Of yesterday.
Chaste thoughts and holy, such as still
To purest hearts are given,
Breathing of Earth, yet wafting high
The soul to Heaven;
Soaring beyond the bounds of Time,
Beyond the blight of Death,
To worlds where “parting is no more,”
“Nor Life a breath.”
’Tis true they whisper mournfully
Of buds too bright to bloom,
Of hopes that blossomed but to die
Around the tomb.
Still they are sweet remembrances
Of life’s unclouded day—
Sketches of mind, which death alone
Can wrench away;
Memorials sad of by-past hours,
Gone with the silent dead;
Pictured affections, pencilled dreams.
Forever fled!
Forever? Are they hushed indeed
To wake again no more?
Ties dearer far than Life itself
With life all o’er?
No! Faith can point to holier climes,
And bid the soul prepare
For deathless union that awaits
The faithful there.
1828. E. P. K.