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112 
ANNA MARIA WELLS.

Loved ones! my children! Ah, they cannot hear
My voice that calls to them! An answer shrill,
A shrill, unconscious answer, rises near,
Repeating, still repeating Whippoorwill!

Another name my lips would breathe;— but then
Such tender memories all my bosom fill,
Back to my sorrowing breast it stinks again!
Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill

HOPE.

THERE sits a woman on the brow
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.

As morning twilight faintly gleams,
Her shadowy form I trace;
Wrapt in the silvery mist, she seems
The Genius of the place!

Far other once was Rosalie;
Her smile was glad, her voice,
Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart,—"rejoice!"

O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling
Perchance a shade, 't would pass,
Lightly as glides the breath of Spring
Along the bending grass.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 16:55:43