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FOREST MELODIES. |
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1843. |
0, what is hope ? It is a flower, Blooming more beauteous ev'ry hour,
Along life's rugged, desert waste! It sheds its fragrance on the air, Forever springing fresh and fair,
Unscorch'd by the sirocco's blast.
Hope ? 'tis a bright, angelic form, That smiles amid the darkest storm,
Pointing to brighter days. Even in Sorrow's diadem, Hope is a gleaming, golden gem,
That never quits our gaze!
A SACRED RELIC.
'Tis a lock of silken hair, Softened by a shade of gloom,
Not of time, or earthly care, But a shadow from the tomb.
It has lost its wonted gleaming;
For the locks with which it shone, And the brow, with love-smiles beaming,
Moulder in the grave alone.
Let me wet it with a tear,
"Tis a token love has saved;—
Who may know how fondly dear Was the brow o'er which it waved ! |
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