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FROM THE FRENCH
OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.
WHEN Hope, that sad coquette, our shoulder
Taps as she dances by,
Then darts away before we hold her,
And turns with laughing eye;
Where goes man? Why, his heart he'll follow
As swallows race the wind,
For heavier is the wing of swallow
Than he who does his mind.
Ah Hope! You flirt, you giddy jade,
I don't believe you know your way!
'T is strange that Fate, who's old and gray,
Should love and serve so young a maid!
E. C. P.
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