the springtime is very sweet. The descriptions are
true to life, and as I read on and on, I behold the exquisite
beauties of your character, for as you so lovingly and simply tell of
the birds, the flowers, the brook and the mist enshrouding the lowing
kine, you artlessly sound the great depths of your own soul.

How I envy the winged denizens of the country! even those black
beetles you so playfully refer to on page 18, line 56. I wish _I_
might come in somewhere:--

Has Margaret forgotten _me_,
And love I now in vain?
If that be so, my heart can know
No rest on earth again.
A sad and weary lot is mine,
To love and be forgot;
A sad and weary lot, beloved;
A sad and weary lot!

And, of course, it pleases me to know they are making much of you
up there in the country. I can see the swains for miles around
polishing their manners and taking astonishing pains with their
Sunday's best, to make a good impression. They, too, are baring their
hearts to your melting glances, completely enchanted under the spell
of your womanly graces. But believe me, my darling Margaret,

When other friends are round thee,
And other hearts are thine;
When other bays have crowned thee,
More _fresh_ and _green_ than mine--
Then think how sad and lonely
This doting heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!

And oh, how I fear, not the spring songs of the birds so mellow with
love's endearing persuasion, the whisperings of the soft winds, nor
the caprice of the beetles, but the gentle pastorals of those sturdy
rural bards. List not to their tender minstrelsy, my darling! List
not to the country poet's song, but hie thee home to thy awaiting
Jamie. List not, for--

How sweet the cadence of his lyre!
What melody of words!
They strike a pulse within the heart,
Like songs of forest birds,
Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell
Among the mountain herds.

Can't you hurry home, Margaret? The town has not lost all its
fascination for you, I hope. Are there no other joys in life but the
top notes of the birdies and the murmurings of the awakening forest?

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love! Arise!
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
Oh, _lady-bird_, hear!