HOPE.

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,

Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard

Unmoved the carol of the matin bird

Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn

Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views,

Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews;

Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head

In varying forms fantastic wander white;

Or turns his ear to every random song,

Heard the green river's winding marge along,

The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight.

So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!