ON A PACKET OF OLD LETTERS by MARCUS S. C. RICKARDS

THE choicest blooms that ever blent
In one sweet posy have decayed;
And then -- adieu to charm and scent!
Naught lingers when they fade:
But lo! to these a perfume clings,
These memories of vanished things,
These spent effusions -- each a flower
Of love that blossomed for its hour.

I lit upon them laid aside
Mementoes of a happier day,
When Life was Beauty, Hope, and Pride,
And Time, one lingering May:
Sole relics of a kindred host,
Each seems like a returning ghost
Of glory in the tender Past;
Or some dead joy, embalmed to last:

For as I read, a shadowy crowd
Of fresh young faces smile and glow --
Girls soft and fair, boys brave and proud,
My mates of long ago.
What pledges passed, what vows and sighs!
See here their tokens! my replies --
Ah! where are they, now Death has strewn
Their treasure, and spared mine alone?

Too strange, too sad that these outlive
The heads that thought, the hands that penned!
The writings should be fugitive
The writers know no end!
So must it be; the love that found
An outlet thus can brook no bound:
'Tis somewhere, and shall volume gain,
From barriers that now restrain!

Dear hearts! our commune is not spent:
Methinks your missives reach me still,
In hopes by happy angels sent,
Which Love shall yet fulfil;
And one bright Morning, as of old
Our voices chime, Where all is told,
Where spirits throb in cloudless truth,
Unshadowed joy, immortal youth!

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