| |
| THERE 1 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 | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| A sailor’s bride ’t was hers to be:— | |
| Wo to the faithless main! | |
| Nine summers since he went to sea, | |
| And ne’er returned again. | |
| |
| But long, where all is wrecked beside, | 25 |
| And every joy is chased, | |
| Long, long will lingering Hope abide | |
| Amid the dreary waste! | |
| |
| Nine years—though all have given him o’er, | |
| Her spirit doth not fail; | 30 |
| And still she waits along the shore | |
| The never coming sail. | |
| |
| On that high rock, abrupt and bare, | |
| Ever she sits, as now; | |
| The dews have damped her flowing hair, | 35 |
| The sun has scorched her brow. | |
| |
| And every far-off sail she sees, | |
| And every passing cloud, | |
| Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze, | |
| She calls to it aloud. | 40 |
| |
| The sea-bird answers to her cry; | |
| The cloud, the sail float on.— | |
| The hoarse wave mocks her misery, | |
| Yet is her hope not gone:— | |
| |
| It cannot go:—with that to part, | 45 |
| So long, so fondly nursed, | |
| So mingled with her faithful heart, | |
| That heart itself would burst. | |
| |
| When falling dews the clover steep, | |
| And birds are in their nest, | 50 |
| And flower-buds folded up to sleep, | |
| And ploughmen gone to rest, | |
| |
| Down the rude track her feet have worn, | |
| —There scarce the goat may go;— | |
| Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn, | 55 |
| Is seen descending slow. | |
| |
| But when the gray morn tints the sky, | |
| And lights that lofty peak,— | |
| With a strange lustre in her eye, | |
| A fever in her cheek, | 60 |
| |
| Again she goes, untired, to sit | |
| And watch, the live-long day; | |
| Nor till the star of eve is lit, | |
| E’er turns her steps away. | |
| |
| Hidden, and deep, and never dry,— | 65 |
| Or flowing, or at rest, | |
| A living spring of hope doth lie | |
| In every human breast. | |
| |
| All else may fail, that soothes the heart,— | |
| All, save that fount alone; | 70 |
| With that and life at once we part, | |
| For life and hope are one. | |
