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ANNA MARIA WELLS. 113

A sailor's bride 'twas hers to be:-
Wo to the faithless main!
Nine summers since he went to sea,
And ne'er returned again.

But long, where is all wreck'd beside,
And every joy is chased,
Long, long will lingering Hope abide
Amid the dreary waste!

Nine years - though all had given him o'er,
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 damp'd her flowing hair,
The sun has scorch'd her brow.

And every far-off sail she sees,
And every passing cloud,
Or white-wing'd 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.

It cannot go;- with that to part,
So long, so fondly nursed,
So mingled with her faithful heart;
That heart itself would burst.

10* H