A LETTER

(WRITTEN IN A DRAUGHTY ROOM)

WITHOUT the snow lies on the ground;
Within the wind doth play
Upon my back, and all around

(Thou know'st its little way).

My fingers stiffen as I write

In this too airy place,

For sundry draughts now take their flight,

And rise from feet to face.

They settle on my shoulders chill;

They run adown my spine,

Ah, how can I this letter fill

Or make another sign?

Thou know'st full well the truth of this,

For often thou didst swear,

When zephyrs bold thy cheek would kiss,

And take thee unaware.

And then, perchance, an ugly sneeze,
Would screw thy visage fair,

And almost bring thee on thy knees;
(A posture now so rare.)

Now write me, write me, son of mine,
The pages long and sweet,
And let each goodly, newsy line

Be ample, full, complete.

The overflowing measure mete

Beyond what thou dost owe;

Then I'll peruse each covered sheet,
Recounting how things go.

Skimp not the herald mute, that speaks

Of all that comes to thee;

That tells the doings of past weeks

So truthfully to me.

And when thou sittest down to think

In calm and quiet mood,

Just take the handy pen and ink,
And chronicle what's good.

And on the virgin paper pour
The fruit of thoughtful mind;
Something that we may ponder o'er,
With sense and love combined.

The utterance of the soul is thus
Embalmed, and ever near,

It is thyself who speaks to us,

Although no longer here.

A VALENTINE

THE FATE OF THE FLATTERER

THERE is a sure unerring law-
A part of Nature's plan,

That what man giveth unto maids,
Maids render back to man.

For men's duplicity they yield
Their mighty scorn in full,

And with severity tenfold
His character they pull,

Remorselessly to pieces small,

Until the very shreds,

Would take full countless pairs of hands,

To gather up the threads.

The man who tells each girl he meets 'She's fairest of her sex,'

In course of time will surely find,
He flatters but to vex.

What is the worth of honeyed phrase, That's given to all around?

It bears no meaning when 'tis known To be but empty sound.

But retribution comes at length,
No woman wants his praise,
There's not a maid in all the world

Believes a word he says.