THE LAST LETTER.

THE hand is prest against her throbbing heart,

Striving the current warm and swift to stay,

Lest pulsing through her veins it treacherous dart

Into her fingers, and with wanton sway

So make the pen disclose the thoughts that flow

Beneath the words as, 'neath its cooled crust,

The molten lava runs and hides a glow

It dares not to the cooling winds intrust.

"Would he were here to tear away the hand

That prisons my poor heart, and let the blood,

With joyous passion bursting through the band

Of modesty, to my pale cheeks swift flood,

And tell him more than maiden hand may write, though great

His sin against me, though his penitence comes late!"

Y.