Hope?

The dark and pillowy cloud, the sallow trees,

Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn;

And, cold and hollow, the inconstant breeze

Sobs thro' the falling leaves and wither'd fern.

O'er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn,

The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling,

While, by the lingering light, I scarce discern

The shrieking night-jar sail on heavy wing.

Ah! yet a little—and propitious Spring

Crown'd with fresh flowers shall wake the woodland strain;

But no gay change revolving seasons bring

To call forth pleasure from the soul of pain;

Bid Syren Hope resume her long-lost part,

And chase the vulture Care—that feeds upon the heart.

Charlotte Smith