THE LETTER.
Amid a flower-strown cottage room,
The Lady sat at even,
Beneath the peerless evening star,
Just peeping out in heaven;
And, in her hands, as lilies, white,
She held a billet-doux,
Which, round upon the tranquil air,
A grateful fragrance threw.
And now she bends her beauteous head,
To read the written lines—
Her white hand starts—a crystal tear
Upon the paper shines;
Her startled bosom gently heaves,
Like billows capped with snow,
And quickly o'er her lovely face,
Her blushes come and go.
Those glowing words have waked within
Her soul, the flame of love,
Which blends her woman nature with
The natures of above:—
A fire whose rays will change to light
Her lover's darkest gloom,
Till he beholds it beam again,
On Heaven's undying bloom.