Muscatine journal. [volume] (Bloomington, Iowa) 1849-185?, 1853-09-16
ORIGINAL.
For the Journal.
Old Letters.
BY ANsELxo.

menu IL kept lEom ucStructiOn Dy CareIuuy
preserving them. But what sweet employ
ment for rainy day, when one feels dull
or sad, to take from the secret hiding place
pacauet of old letters, and con over their
contents. At such time we may have left
our cherished home, and be weary wander
ers frem the parental roof; and as we scan
the well-known chirography, sentiments
something like these meet our eye:
ss Home! i" This little word has made the
heart Of many wanderer throb with pleas
ing motion; it has dried the tears wrung
from many an anguished bosom, and ha.
soothed the care-worn mind so as almost to
dispel its sorrows.
AS the wanderer approaches his home he
is almost over come with recollections of
the happy hours he has spent beneath that
moss-coyercd roof, in his sunny childhood
He retires to rest, and is
placed in the same small room that he was
accustomed to occupy in the days of his
youth-his mother steals softly to the door
an hour afterw ards, and gazes long upon
the countenance Of her darling boy she
prints kiss upon his cheek and turns
noiselessly away he awakens in the morn
ing refreshed and thinks that nights sleep
thesweetest he has enjoyed since he left the
parental roof. Wo read on with feelings
of interest, and bless the writer while we
read, for his words touch chord in our
heart that vibrates sweetly. Presently we
take up another, well-worn it is from one
we valued in early days-whose voice we
loved to listen to-whose words betokened
gentle soul, and whose letters were ever
our delight. 'Tis her birthday; she has
reviewed the past and nov speaks of tho
future. 81 look forward to another birth
day, and wonder if the friends love will
still be near to bless me with their smiles !;
whether shall still be permitted to sojourn
upon thisi mundane sphere, and whether
shall be as free from care and sorrow as
now but all my suppositions are vain; the
curtain of the future still rises before me,
dark and impenetrabie as ever in vain /
peer into that gloomy mist Il see no light,
and must patiently await the unfolding of
the hours and moments.' And further on
she tells Of thu death of dear young
friend, an intelligent, bright eyed little boy,
and of his mothers sorrow. "IIow changed,''
she writes, ''seems everything there; it is
true each article Of furniture retains its
accustomed place-all is perfect order as
usual, and the birds war5ie their sweet notes
around as they were wont to do in times
past, when there was another ear to listen
to their melody. But Oddly is gone . and
everywhere We miss his merry tones ;--while
oil tends to remind us he has passed away.
As the flowers spring from the ground and
bloom in beauty, so he blooms in another
sphere. never saw any one so unreconcil.
ed as his mother--nothing seems to bring
consolation to her bleeding heart--she feels
his loss as only mother can feel"
What have we next? All that familiar
writing tells a sad tale That calm, earn
est eye is now CLASSY in death--that plead
ing voice will sound its gentle admonitions
in our ears no more. Charlie is dead But
being dead, he yet speaks" You are hap
PLY circumstanced, you are surrounded by
doating kindred and aHectionate friends, q
fathers holy smile beams ever upon you, a
mothers sacred benison attends your foot
steps, and cherished sister clings with un-
dying attachment to you, as the ivy to
the oak These are endear;ng charms for
the hour and season of prosperity, but oh !
forget not, amid them all, that adversity
must come. That fathers eye may lose its
luster In the repose of the grave; that
mothers form become inanimate in death,
and the clay cold lips refuse to return thy
/. flial kiss. That cherished sisters affection
may be taken from thee, and thy heart be
lone and desolate indeed. All have
drawn forloru picture could weep over
it myself even now the quivering tear dims
my eye and melancholy thoughts gather
over my soul, as contemplate the utter
desolation Of that hour. Oh ! may it be far
distant, and my willing soul would say, may
it never come. Can you forgive me for
having thus obtruded my sombrs reflections
upon you? have done it with the best
intentions. / am no morbid dreamer over
the ills of life, but knowing that sorrow
must come, trust shall even in some de-
gree be prepared to meet the ohcerless
guest" We take up favorite epistle; 'tis
full of kindly words, written by friend who
sometimes courted the muse-but he now
mourns her departure. 8 have written no
rhymes lately-the muse has, fear, taken
an everlasting hight-but still hope for
her return; some favoriug gale from Par
nassus' noun. may yet breathe upon the
sterile heart where flowers once bloomed-
and they may bloom again." The genial
breeze must have famed my friends brow
very soon, for in the same letter he adds
the following lines
THE MGsIC OF THE SEA.
"Hark from the depths of yonder sea,
A strain of music soft and low
Is borne upon the ambient air,
In echo's solemn, sad and SLOW
..Whence comes it? frcm the cayerns deep
Beneath old oceans briny spray
From some soft harp that vbrates sweet,
When syren ilasers Der it play?
From some wearied Tyre Of pensve tone,
BY fairy fingers swept along
Or some wild sea maid sad and lone,
Dssoyiig anguish into song?