IN FRENCH FIELDS.
241
Sonnet—HOPE.
Too well I know thee; thou art very fair,
Thine eyes are blue and bright, and in their hour
Armed also with a certain magic power,
Red are thy lips, and smiles are always there;
Thou beckonest me thy forest-home to share,
And in the green pool from this leafy bower
I see thy face reflected, while the flower
Lets fall its dewdrops on that mirror bare.
Without arising, or e'en turning round,
I see thee thus, and hear thine accents sound
With gracious earnestness. Ah me! what pain,
What suffering it has cost my heart to learn,
That thou, O lovely Hope, art false and vain!
And so rest here, and from thy witchery turn.
