In every season, every change of life,
To give that zest which she can only give,
Hope must preside incessant. Poverty,
With all her train of ills;—th’ unerring grasp
Of grief and sickness;—thy soul-wasting powers,
Pale-ey’d Captivity! without the aid,
Cordial and sweet, of that associate mild,
Who could support? Not e’en the happiest lot
Here, in these low abodes of sin and care,
Sustains her absence gladly.—Not the gifts
Shower’d in the year’s luxuriance; nor yet those
Shook on all sides from Fortune’s golden wheel,
Might satisfy the soul, did not young Hope
Stretch o’er the onward scene her potent wand,
And give them brighter colouring. Thus all
The vapid present yields, in its best mood,
Leaves the sick heart unsatisfied;—but thou,
Enchantress, blest of mission, canst sustain,
Canst animate, and on the vermeil dawn,
The white effulgent noon, and golden eve,
Of bloomy Summer, shed ideal light,
Which more than crowns their beauty. Thou canst lift
With rosy hand, the veils of time, and pledge
To youth the flowers of love;—to manhood point
The paths of wealth and glory;—to worn age
The downy couch, warm hearth, and social friend.
But far beyond all these, sustain’d by faith,
Thou canst extend the Heav’n-illumin’d torch
Gilding the grave; and, past its darksome bourne,
Disclosing the fair realms of joy and love
Where Night and Winter never come;—nor pain,
Nor dread of change;—but one celestial Morn
Purples th’ Immortal Year; and one bright Spring
Of gratitude and bliss exhaustless flows
Thro’ the redeem’d, emancipated soul.