Metrical LetterWritten from LondonMargaret! my Cousin!—nay, you must not smile;I love the homely and familiar phrase;And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,However quaint amid the measured lineThe good old term appears. Oh! it looks illWhen delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,Sirring and Madaming as civillyAs if the road between the heart and lipsWere such a weary and Laplandish wayThat the poor travellers came to the red gatesHalf frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,For many a day my Memory has playedThe creditor with me on your account,And made me shame to think that I should oweSo long the debt of kindness. But in truth,Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bearSo heavy a pack of business, that albeitI toil on mainly, in our twelve hours raceTime leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were IThat for a moment you should lay to meUnkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heartThat smokes not, yet methinks there should be someWho know how warm it beats. I am not oneWho can play off my smiles and courtesiesTo every Lady of her lap dog tiredWho wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friendOf half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring upAt once without a seed and take no root,Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphereThe little circle of domestic lifeI would be known and loved; the world beyondIs not for me. But Margaret, sure I thinkThat you should know me well, for you and IGrew up together, and when we look backUpon old times our recollections paintThe same familiar faces. Did I wieldThe wand of Merlin’s magic I would makeBrave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,Aye, a new Ark, as in that other floodThat cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isleLike that where whilome old ApollidonBuilt up his blameless spell; and I would bidThe Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,That we might stand upon the beach, and markThe far-off breakers shower their silver spray,And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant soundTold us that never mariner should reachOur quiet coast. In such a blessed isleWe might renew the days of infancy,And Life like a long childhood pass away,Without one care. It may be, Margaret,That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,For I am not of those who live estrangedOf choice, till at the last they join their raceIn the family vault. If so, if I should lose,Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge packSo heavy on my shoulders, I and mineWill end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.If not, if I should never get beyondThis Vanity town, there is another worldWhere friends will meet. And often, Margaret,I gaze at night into the boundless sky,And think that I shall there be born again,The exalted native of some better star;And like the rude American I hopeTo find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.
Written from London
Margaret! my Cousin!—nay, you must not smile;I love the homely and familiar phrase;And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,However quaint amid the measured lineThe good old term appears. Oh! it looks illWhen delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,Sirring and Madaming as civillyAs if the road between the heart and lipsWere such a weary and Laplandish wayThat the poor travellers came to the red gatesHalf frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,For many a day my Memory has playedThe creditor with me on your account,And made me shame to think that I should oweSo long the debt of kindness. But in truth,Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bearSo heavy a pack of business, that albeitI toil on mainly, in our twelve hours raceTime leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were IThat for a moment you should lay to meUnkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heartThat smokes not, yet methinks there should be someWho know how warm it beats. I am not oneWho can play off my smiles and courtesiesTo every Lady of her lap dog tiredWho wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friendOf half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring upAt once without a seed and take no root,Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphereThe little circle of domestic lifeI would be known and loved; the world beyondIs not for me. But Margaret, sure I thinkThat you should know me well, for you and IGrew up together, and when we look backUpon old times our recollections paintThe same familiar faces. Did I wieldThe wand of Merlin’s magic I would makeBrave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,Aye, a new Ark, as in that other floodThat cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isleLike that where whilome old ApollidonBuilt up his blameless spell; and I would bidThe Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,That we might stand upon the beach, and markThe far-off breakers shower their silver spray,And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant soundTold us that never mariner should reachOur quiet coast. In such a blessed isleWe might renew the days of infancy,And Life like a long childhood pass away,Without one care. It may be, Margaret,That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,For I am not of those who live estrangedOf choice, till at the last they join their raceIn the family vault. If so, if I should lose,Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge packSo heavy on my shoulders, I and mineWill end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.If not, if I should never get beyondThis Vanity town, there is another worldWhere friends will meet. And often, Margaret,I gaze at night into the boundless sky,And think that I shall there be born again,The exalted native of some better star;And like the rude American I hopeTo find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.