Morning Star

From the Friendship's Offering.

Letter to the Dead.

BY MISS M. A. BROWNE.

It is the midnight hour—
The house is hushed and still-
The bell of the old church tower
Sounds loudly o'er the hill;

Yet one pale taper's light
Sheds radiance on the night,
And while around her, elder eyes are sleeping,
A young and lovely maid a lone love-watch is keeping.

A love-watch, yet alone,
No other form is there;
Her lips breathe no soft tone
Unto the silent air;

Before her lies the scroll
Where she hath poured her soul—
Trusting, though seas their aching bosoms part,
That her belov'd shall read the record of her heart.

Her cheek is on her hand—
Her fingers press her brow;
And in his distant land
Her thoughts are busy now;

She's on the desert plain—
She's by the ancient fane;
She's with him on the lake's pure star-lit wave,
But never 'neath the tree that shades his nameless grave.

She sees his glossy hair
That the spicy zephyr stirs;
His own blue eyes are there,
And fondly fixed on hers!

No image doth she see
Of dark reality
Nor dreams how cold the eyes, how stiff the brow,
On which her memory dwells delighted now.

And little doth she dream
Of that fond letter's fate;
How he, who is its theme.
Hath left her desolate;

How every burning word,
So passionately pour'd
For him, and him alone on earth, shall be
Subject to cold and formal scrutiny.

She trusts that it shall lie
Close to his throbbing heart,
And with a happy sigh
Will see that scroll depart;

Envying its pathway dim
Across the seas to him:
Nor feeling that each hour it draweth near
An eye that cannot read-a heart it cannot cheer.

It will return again
By his cold lips unpressed
Nor will its fold have lain
Within his icy breast.

How will its coming wring
The heart that was its spring!
The heart that had no dim, foreboding pain,
That its outgushing love was written there in vain!