Classic Poem

Hills piled on rugged hills! But see, how drear,
And with what startling solitariness,
The T ETE DE Boule looms yonder! Cold and clear
In isolated grandeur, the huge mass,
Like the stern Magi of this granite pass,
He stands amid-stream, thoughtfully apart
From his far-off companions. Once, alas!
I knew a stately soul, with lone, sad heart,
And thus to me he sung — that mountain's counterpart:

VANISHED HOPES.

I've supped with depression and feasted with sorrow,
The hot tears of anguish have withered my heart;
And now, death might strike down my last hope to-morrow,
Not one tear is left me to deaden his dart.

From youth up to manhood a scourge was upon me,
Few roses of pleasure have bloomed in life's crown;
No rainbow of promise wherein I might sun me,
The grasp of a fate is still bearing me down.

And thus like a tree in the lone desert — blasted,
Dry, leafless and withered — dead, sapless and bare,
I long for love's sweet dews, once mine, now untasted,
And stand like a wretch stricken dumb with despair!