Virginia Free Press

POETRY.

STANZAS:

HOPE.

BY B. T. CUSHING.

Thou of the silver wing!

Bright-glancing Hope, fair daughter of the skies,

Come to me now, and woo me with thine eyes,

As in my boyhood's spring!

Then kind indeed wert thou,

As I sat musing by the crystal rill.

Or climbed at eve high on some beetling hill,

To see the young moon's brow.

Thou camest to me there,

And whispered words of gladness in my ear,

And painted visions, beautiful to hear,

Of coming moments fair.

Along thy magic glass

I saw bright pageantries flit to and fro,

And palaces of gold, where gardens grow

With flowers of loveliness.

And all along the walks

Stood statues of the radiant gods of yore,

And fountains foamed o'er the mosaic floor,

And murmuring leaves held talks.

And there I saw divine.

Proud forms of female beauty sweeping by;

And all these things that shone so gorgeously,

All these were mine!

Then changed the scene anon,

And to the world I struck a silver lyre,

And, thou didst whisper, poured a fervid fire,

Like the true spirits gone.

Then shone I great in arms;

Then ruling thousands through the potent voice,

By wisest counsels bade my land rejoice,

Unscathed by war's alarms.

In thee I had a home.

A bride of beauty, and a gentle band.

Twining around me closer, hand in hand,

Too glorious for the tomb:

For thy sweet fancies fair

Then never died; I could not give away

The creatures of the mind to mix with clay,

Or fade in empty air!

But they are gone, and thou!

Thy rainbow wing hath ceased at length to wave,

Thy gentle children all are in the grave,

Their dust is on thy brow!

But still this hast thou given,

To breathe a cheerfulness o'er common life:

To make each common scene with beauty rife,

And teach a faith in Heaven!