Metrical Letter, 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 line         The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill         When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,         Sirring and Madaming as civilly         As if the road between the heart and lips         Were such a weary and Laplandish way         That the poor travellers came to the red gates         Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,         For many a day my Memory has played         The creditor with me on your account,         And made me shame to think that I should owe         So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,         Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear         So heavy a pack of business, that albeit         I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race         Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I         That for a moment you should lay to me         Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart         That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some         Who know how warm it beats. I am not one         Who can play off my smiles and courtesies         To every Lady of her lap dog tired         Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend         Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;         Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up         At once without a seed and take no root,         Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere         The little circle of domestic life         I would be known and loved; the world beyond         Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think         That you should know me well, for you and I         Grew up together, and when we look back         Upon old times our recollections paint         The same familiar faces. Did I wield         The wand of Merlin's magic I would make         Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,         Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood         That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,         The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle         Like that where whilome old Apollidon         Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid         The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,         That we might stand upon the beach, and mark         The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,         And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound         Told us that never mariner should reach         Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle         We 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 estranged         Of choice, till at the last they join their race         In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,         Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack         So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine         Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.         If not, if I should never get beyond         This Vanity town, there is another world         Where 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 hope         To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.