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Hours at Naples, and Other Poems

By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley
 

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HOPE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

HOPE.

The drowning Seaman grasps the empty air
Above him in its hopeless clearness spread,
Clutches the wave with desperation there—
Still striving—struggling on—till he is dead.
So Hope, when nought substantial meets its grasp,
Strains any Shadow fleeting faintly by,
Nor knoweth wholly to withdraw its clasp,
Till sweeping Ruin saith, “Despair and Die!”