Still Bertha waited on the cliff, And hope at her yearning heart would knock, Married a wreath of wandering foam. Was it well? you ask - (nay, was it ill?) – Who sat last year by the old man's hearth;The sun had passed below the earth, And the first star locked its western gate, When Bertha entered his darkening home, And smiling said, 'He does not come, But, dearest father, we still can wait!' ANNE WHITNEY. HOPES AND WAVES. HOPES on hopes from the bosom sever, That the billows heave with a ceaseless motion And hopes that from day to day upstart From the German of RÜCKERT. My hopes retire, my wishes as before W. S. LANDOR. 13 WRITING ON THE SANDS. I PAUSED at early morn to trace Nor cared to think how soon the race The record of my hand. But now the broad'ning blue expanse Rolls higher up the shore; Farther the curling waves advance, Their smiles of light, their wreathed dance Are nearer than before. And now, alas that human pride So slight a thing may quell! With yonder words beneath the tide, I feel that all I've wrought beside And dare I deem that all this strife Of thoughts within my soul, These hopes with which my heart is rife, These longings for a glorious life, Will find a better goal? Oh, coward! when the trumpet's call Is sounding in thy heart, Pause not to basely reckon all The risks to triumph or to fall, I know not if the bearded grain Or barren stalks await Mine autumn hours. Yet not in vain The toil, though God the fruits restrain Oh Love, that askest but to be! Oh Faith, that will not die! Life, courage, strength, ye are to me, While all things change, and fade, and flee, In ocean, earth, and sky. W. H. HURLBUT. My life is like a stroll upon the beach, My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care To set my gains beyond the reach of tides, Each smoother pebble and each shell more rare, Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. I have but few companions on the shore, The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. H. D. THOREAU. |