HOPE.
THERE sits a woman on the brow Of yonder rocky height; There, gazing o'er the waves below, She sits from morn till night.
She heeds not how the mad waves leap Along the rugged shore; She looks for one upon the deep, She never may see more.
As morning twilight faintly gleams, Her shadowy form I trace; Wrapt in the silvery mist, she seems The Genius of the place!
Far other once was Rosalie; Her smile was glad, her voice Like music o'er a summer sea, Said to the heart, —"rejoice!"
O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling Perchance a shade, 't would pass, Lightly as glides the breath of Spring Along the bending grass.