Margaret! my Cousin!—nay, you must not smile;

I love the homely and familiar phrase;

And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,

However quaint amid the measured line

The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill

When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,

Sirring and Madaming as civilly

As if the road between the heart and lips

Were such a weary and Laplandish way

That the poor travellers came to the red gates

Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,

For many a day my Memory has played

The creditor with me on your account,

And made me shame to think that I should owe

So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,

Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear

So heavy a pack of business, that albeit

I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours race

Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I

That for a moment you should lay to me

Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart

That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some

Who know how warm it beats. I am not one

Who can play off my smiles and courtesies

To every Lady of her lap dog tired

Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend

Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;

Mine are no mushroom feelings that spring up

At once without a seed and take no root,

Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere

The little circle of domestic life

I would be known and loved; the world beyond

Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think

That you should know me well, for you and I

Grew up together, and when we look back

Upon old times our recollections paint

The same familiar faces. Did I wield

The wand of Merlin’s magic I would make

Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,

Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood

That cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth,

The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle

Like that where whilome old Apollidon

Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid

The Sea Nymphs pile around their coral bowers,

That we might stand upon the beach, and mark

The far-off breakers shower their silver spray,

And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound

Told us that never mariner should reach

Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle

We might renew the days of infancy,

And Life like a long childhood pass away,

Without one care. It may be, Margaret,

That I shall yet be gathered to my friends,

For I am not of those who live estranged

Of choice, till at the last they join their race

In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,

Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack

So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine

Will end our pilgrimage most pleasantly.

If not, if I should never get beyond

This Vanity town, there is another world

Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,

I gaze at night into the boundless sky,

And think that I shall there be born again,

The exalted native of some better star;

And like the rude American I hope

To find in Heaven the things I loved on earth.