What is she writing? Watch her now,
⁠How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful brow
⁠Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
⁠She puts them quick aside,
Nor knows, that band of crystals bright,
⁠Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken dress,
⁠Falls glittering at her feet;
Unmarked it falls, for she no less
⁠Pursues her labour sweet.

The very loveliest hour that shines,
⁠Is in that deep blue sky;
The golden sun of June declines,
⁠It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
⁠The white road, far away,
In vain for her light footsteps wait,
⁠She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of glass
⁠Close by that lady's chair,
From thence, to slopes of mossy grass,
⁠Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
⁠Around the threshold grow;
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room,
⁠From that sun's deepening glow.
Why does she not a moment glance
⁠Between the clustering flowers,
And mark in heaven the radiant dance
⁠Of evening's rosy hours?
O look again! Still fixed her eye,
⁠Unsmiling, earnest, still,
And fast her pen and fingers fly,
⁠Urged by her eager will.

Her soul is in th' absorbing task;
⁠To whom, then, doth she write?
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
⁠Her own eyes' serious light;
Where do they turn, as now her pen
⁠Hangs o'er th' unfinished line?
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
⁠Did in their dark spheres shine?
The summer-parlour looks so dark,
⁠When from that sky you turn,
And from th' expanse of that green park,
⁠You scarce may aught discern.
Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
⁠O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
⁠One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
⁠Distinct, what form defines
The clouded mass of mystery
⁠Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade
⁠Your eyes now faintly trace
A stalwart form, a massive head,
⁠A firm, determined face.

Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek,
⁠A brow high, broad, and white,
Where every furrow seems to speak
⁠Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god? I cannot tell;
⁠Her eye a moment met
Th' impending picture, then it fell
⁠Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done,
⁠And sealed the letter lies;
And now, towards the setting sun
⁠She turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder not,
⁠For by the inscription, see
In what a strange and distant spot
⁠Her heart of hearts must be!
Three seas and many a league of land
⁠That letter must pass o'er,
E'er read by him to whose loved hand
⁠'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain
⁠Her husband, loved though stern;
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
⁠Weeps for his wished return.