WRITE SOON.
A sad farewell is warmly dear,
But something dearer may be found
To dwell on lips that are sincere;
And lurk in bosoms closely bound.
But something dearer may be found
To dwell on lips that are sincere;
And lurk in bosoms closely bound.
The pressing hand, the steadfast sigh,
Are both less earnest than the boon
Which, fervently, the last fond sigh
Begs in the hopeful words "Write soon!"
Are both less earnest than the boon
Which, fervently, the last fond sigh
Begs in the hopeful words "Write soon!"
"Write soon!" oh, sweet request of Truth!
How tenderly its accents come!
We heard it first in early youth,
When mothers watch'd us leaving home.
How tenderly its accents come!
We heard it first in early youth,
When mothers watch'd us leaving home.
And still amid the trumpet-joys,
That weary us with pomp and show,
We turn from all the brassy noise
To hear this minor cadence flow.
That weary us with pomp and show,
We turn from all the brassy noise
To hear this minor cadence flow.
We part, but carry on our way
Some loved one's plaintive spirit-tune;
That, as we wander, seems to say,
"Affection lives on faith,—Write soon!"
Some loved one's plaintive spirit-tune;
That, as we wander, seems to say,
"Affection lives on faith,—Write soon!"
HERE'S CHRISTMAS.
Here's "Christmas"—let us boldly greet him,
We may as well, for none can cheat him;
He will steal on, and slily sprinkle
The first grey hair and first faint wrinkle.
And yet methinks it little matters
What seed of Ruin-moss he scatters,
So that amid it we contrive
To keep Truth's Heartsease still alive
Within our breast.
We may as well, for none can cheat him;
He will steal on, and slily sprinkle
The first grey hair and first faint wrinkle.
And yet methinks it little matters
What seed of Ruin-moss he scatters,
So that amid it we contrive
To keep Truth's Heartsease still alive
Within our breast.
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