Hope On
POWER’S a cheat, success but trying,
Even pleasure bears a sting;
Still ’tis useless, useless sighing,
Rather list to Hope replying—
“The flowers must come again with spring;
And in the trampled way we re going
Streams of comfort yet are flowing—
Hark! I hear them murmuring.”
Fame’s a liar in the nation!
Love hath oft a wayward wing;
Still, hence seek not for occasion
To impugn Hope’s sweet persuasion—
“The flowers will come again with spring;
And in the world-wide way we re going
Streams of pure good yet are flowing—
Hark! I hear them murmuring.”
Friendship turns, itself denying
Even Truth the heart may wring;
Still, though trust be daily dying,
Listen still to Hope replying—
“The flowers will come again with spring:
And in the blasted way we re going
There’s yet one healing current flowing—
Hark! I hear it murmuring.”
All is dream-like, all off wingeth,
All that time and tide doth bring;
Then cold Death his black pall bringeth,
Still what matter while Hope singeth—
“Lo! heaven is one eternal spring!
And midway through it rolls a river,
Wherein to bathe is health for ever—
Hark! I hear it murmuring.”
