 | Poems |  |
THE FORSAKEN.
It's there that she loves to sit,
By the cool sea-breezes fann'd,
With her babe 'neath the bending palms
That shadow that island strand.
By the cool sea-breezes fann'd,
With her babe 'neath the bending palms
That shadow that island strand.
Her dusky brow has a calm
Too deep for a face so young;
And too wildly, sadly sweet
Are the songs to her infant sung.
Too deep for a face so young;
And too wildly, sadly sweet
Are the songs to her infant sung.
And there, through the weary day,
She keeps from that lonely shore
Her watch o'er the distant sea,
For a sail that will come no more.
She keeps from that lonely shore
Her watch o'er the distant sea,
For a sail that will come no more.
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