The Dead Letter

EY JOHJí O. 6AXE. And can it be 'i Ah, yes, I see, 'Tis thirty years and better Since Mary Morgan sent to me This musty, musky letter. A pretty hand, (she couldn't spell), As any man must vote it ; And 'twas, as I remember well, A pretty hand that wrote it ! How camly now I view it all. A meinory backward ranges - The talks, the walks that I recall, And then - the postal changes ! How well I loved her, I can guess (8ince cash is Cupid's hostage) - Just one-and-sixpence - nothing less - This letter cost in postage. The love that wrote at suoh a rate (By Jove ! it was a steep one !) - Five hundred notes (I calcúlate) Was certainly a deep one ; And yet it died- of slow decliné - Perhaps suspicion chilled it ! I've quite forgotten if 'twas mine Or Mary's ílirting killed it. At last the fatal message carne ; " My please return them ; And yours - of course you wi%h the same - I'H send them back or buro them " Two precious fools, I must allow, Whichever mi the gi'euter; I wonder if I'm wiser now, Some seven lustres later 'i And this alone remains ! Ah, well ! These words of warm aftection, The faded ink, the pungent smel!, Are food for deep reñection. They tell of how tlie heart contrives To change with fancy's fashion, And how a drop of muak survives The strongeát human passiou ! - Ilarper's Magazine.