 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
338
Rosalie.—Mrs. Hale's Magazine.
There sits a woman on the brow
Of yonder rocky height;
There, gazing o'er the waves below,
She sits from morn till night.
Of yonder rocky height;
There, gazing o'er the waves below,
She sits from morn till night.
She heeds not how the mad waves leap
Along the rugged shore;
She looks for one upon the deep
She never may see more.
Along the rugged shore;
She looks for one upon the deep
She never may see more.
Far other once was Rosalie;
Her smile was glad; her voice,
Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart—Rejoice.
Her smile was glad; her voice,
Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart—Rejoice.
Nine years—though all have given him o'er,
Her spirit doth not fail;
And still she waits along the shore
The never-coming sail.
Her spirit doth not fail;
And still she waits along the shore
The never-coming sail.
On that high rock, abrupt and bare,
Ever she sits, as now;
The dews have damped her flowing hair;
The sun has scorched her brow.
Ever she sits, as now;
The dews have damped her flowing hair;
The sun has scorched her brow.
And every far-off sail she sees,
And every passing cloud,
Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze,
She calls to it aloud.
And every passing cloud,
Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze,
She calls to it aloud.
The sea-bird answers to her cry,
The cloud, the sail float on;
The hoarse wave mocks her misery,
Yet is her hope not gone.
The cloud, the sail float on;
The hoarse wave mocks her misery,
Yet is her hope not gone.
When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds are in their nest,
And flower-buds folded up to sleep,
And ploughmen gone to rest,—
And birds are in their nest,
And flower-buds folded up to sleep,
And ploughmen gone to rest,—
Down the rude track her feet have worn—
There scarce the goat may go—
Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,
Is seen descending slow.
There scarce the goat may go—
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Is seen descending slow.
But when the gray morn tints the sky,
And lights that lofty peak,—
With a strange lustre in her eye,
A fever in her cheek,—
And lights that lofty peak,—
With a strange lustre in her eye,
A fever in her cheek,—
Again she goes, untired, to sit,
And watch, the live-long day;
Nor, till the star of eve is lit,
E'er turns her steps away.
And watch, the live-long day;
Nor, till the star of eve is lit,
E'er turns her steps away.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |