The Union and journal. [volume] (Biddeford, Me.) 1858-1882, 1860-04-13
BIDDEFoRD, ME-, FRIDAY MORNING,

natural in human nature, it brings upper
most. The storm tones the spirit into uni
son with its fury and rush, and rouse' in it
that ferce impatience, that sense of bitter
restraint and chatting bonds, ofprido and
scorning strength, which seems like dim
shadowins of Lucifcr's spirit just before he
fell.
Then last comes to-day. Look out of this
window with me. There are the hills softly
outlined through veil Of silver mist. The
pines stand motionless and solemn by the
white bosomed river, and the rain comes
down in quick. gushing showers from soft
grey sky. A gray quakerish day with just
that mild lovable way with it.
Now wheel that largo arm chair to the
window. bring me that package Of letters
and 60. cannot think with any one in the
room, besides there arc some strange things
in these old letters, and do you think want
any one to see my tears if should shed any,
or ask me why smilc at this, Orsigh at that?
Here is delicate, lady like writing, but
the wavering lines lack strength and firmness.
Ny eyes arc resting now on words OF fond en-
dearmont and loving friendship. All! beautiful
Amy, YOU were ficklc as fair, and this was
written long ago. Such is the way of the
world but if mistake not the look that mars
the once perfect face, wealth and jewels
cannot satisfy the heart which sold itself to
age and infirmity for them, and che whom
you pityas not in sour set" is far happier
than thou.
A bold, strong hand, and strong firm words
with it. Does rubbed ring still slcam from
my finger, or do fancy it only? Thou and
|, o writer, had a sweet dream once, and as
| dream it DER again to the soft singing OF
the silver rain, know not but tits better
broken, and yet, memory whispers il had
been less proud, and thou less firm-but no
tits past, and we walk different ways.
think the sky grows darker, and the
rain sobs sadly in tho plumed pine, as open
this little childish note from which there falls
a ring of sun-kissed hair. All me! these
tears cannot keep them back. There's n
vision of little face made holy by the kiss
of the death angel, memory Of little hands
folded on childish heart, and Of eyes which
closing shut the sunshine out from more than
one rebellious heart. The rain has fallen on
thy grave for manya year, sweet Alice, and
our meeting draweth nearer.
From over the sea this letter came, and
stop to study its foreign post-mark and note
its strange but beautiful superscription. Oh
restless, longing poct-heart, has the fame for
which you thirsted given you rests o for n
look into those changing April lcyes, for word
from those scorning, yet tender passionate
lips The world mourns that the fire which
burns so fiercely in your heart is consuming
the springs of your yet young life, but will
not weep, for do not see the words before
me now, as oft l have heard them from sup
plant lips, spray for me that | die young"
and am glad, as thou art glad, that for thee
life's sun is near its setting. Thou will die
m Venice, "beautiful Venice, bride Of the
Sea-
The rain is almost past. To the golden
gated West are Aockins clouds blushing
rosy-rcd as bride at the altar. Silver gray
like the breasts of doves, foam white as the
seas crested waves, with deep fiery crimson
strains breaking through them, like the
revelation of sinful blood-stuincd soul in q
fair smiling woman. Who could ever weary of
the skies, could say tonight, and yet l have
known times when their beauty was but
mockcry and could have hated their
trcacherous smiles.
Slowly over the earth the darkness gathers,
wrapping the hills as mantle. Low in the
skies young moon hangs like smile in the
sky, and the stars open their holy eycs,whilc
the shades that deepen in the room tell me
that day is done. The rainy day is over,
and alonein the twilight gloom, l am glad
for the day of rest. 1t is well now and then
to live day in tho past, to leave the present
and opening the gates ofthought let the tides
of memory flow over the soul. The present
is hard and stern, the future uncertain, but
memory throws halo round the past, which,
softening its bitter lessons and hcightening
its sweet teachings, makes it a sacred thing
to the heart.