The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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HOPE. |
 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
374
HOPE.
Like the foam on the billow
As it heaves o'er the deep,
Like a tear on the pillow
When we sigh in our sleep,
Like the syren that sings,
We cannot tell where,
Is the Hope that hath wings,
The phantom of air!
As it heaves o'er the deep,
Like a tear on the pillow
When we sigh in our sleep,
Like the syren that sings,
We cannot tell where,
Is the Hope that hath wings,
The phantom of air!
Like the starlight of gladness
When it gleams in death's eye,
Or the meteor of madness
In the spirit's dark sky;
Like the zephyrs that perish
With the breath of their birth,
Are the hopes that we cherish—
Poor bondmen of earth!
When it gleams in death's eye,
Or the meteor of madness
In the spirit's dark sky;
Like the zephyrs that perish
With the breath of their birth,
Are the hopes that we cherish—
Poor bondmen of earth!
The pleasures and pains,
That pass o'er us below,
Fade like colours and stains
On the cold winter's snow;
All the loves of the bosom
That burns with delight,
Are mildew'd in blossom
And wither'd with blight.
That pass o'er us below,
Fade like colours and stains
On the cold winter's snow;
All the loves of the bosom
That burns with delight,
Are mildew'd in blossom
And wither'd with blight.
The sunbeam of feeling
Lights the ruins of love,
And sorrow is stealing
O'er the visions above;
Like a spirit unblest,
Hope wanders alone,
With a heart ne'er at rest,
In the future or gone.
Lights the ruins of love,
And sorrow is stealing
O'er the visions above;
Like a spirit unblest,
Hope wanders alone,
With a heart ne'er at rest,
In the future or gone.
375
She drinks from Time's cup
The bright nectar of heaven,
And her spirit mounts up
'Mid the glories of even;
But the world drugs with death
The chalice of bliss,
As the nightingale's breath
Wafts the rattlesnake's hiss.
The bright nectar of heaven,
And her spirit mounts up
'Mid the glories of even;
But the world drugs with death
The chalice of bliss,
As the nightingale's breath
Wafts the rattlesnake's hiss.
From the bowers of repose
Like a spectre she starts,
And she breathes the spring's rose
O'er the depths of all hearts;
But fancy and feeling
Must vanish in sorrow,
Struck hearts have no healing—
Hope sighs o'er tomorrow.
Like a spectre she starts,
And she breathes the spring's rose
O'er the depths of all hearts;
But fancy and feeling
Must vanish in sorrow,
Struck hearts have no healing—
Hope sighs o'er tomorrow.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |