The fitful beam
Of the rippled fountain,
The purple gleam
Of the eve-lit mountain,
The vanishing glance
Of the meteors motion,
The lights that dance
On the darkened ocean,
Are the faithful types of the _hopes_ that won us,
While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us.
The arid sands
Of the sun-dried river,
The rock that stands
Where lightnings quiver,
The pitiless rush
Of the earthquake's ruin,
The startling hush
Of the sea-storm brewing,
Are as truly types of the _sorrows_ that found us,
When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.