FROM GAUTIER.

THE waves in kisses tell the shore

Their hopes and fears;

To cheer the wild and shrinking flower

The morn has tears;

The wind at eve e'er chants its plaint

To cypress groves;

To waving pines, in murmurs faint,

Sorrow the doves.

To swelling tides, when night's dark veil

Frees earth from care,

The moon relates what renders pale

Her cheek so fair.

To heaven Sainte Sophie's domes of white

Their anthems raise;

The heavens musing e'er recite

To God their praise.

All, tree or tomb, - all, dove or rose,

And wave or stone,

Have that to which they may disclose

The thoughts they own.

To me alone naught gives reply,

Alone I want

All answer but thy mournful cry,

Drear Hellespont.