 | Sacra Poesis |  |
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HOPE.
HOPE! in the winning sweetness of thy smile
All-conquering, that tread'st the sturdy neck
Of tyrant care, enthron'd thyself in all
Thy soft-subduing gentleness, which smooths
The gathering wrinkles of anxiety;
Thou, that with ivory finger beckonest on,
And with angelic countenance invitest
To immortality's unsating bliss,
Thou anchor of the soul, firm 'mid the dash
Of waters,—I will claim thee, bright-ey'd Hope.
All-conquering, that tread'st the sturdy neck
Of tyrant care, enthron'd thyself in all
Thy soft-subduing gentleness, which smooths
The gathering wrinkles of anxiety;
Thou, that with ivory finger beckonest on,
And with angelic countenance invitest
To immortality's unsating bliss,
Thou anchor of the soul, firm 'mid the dash
Of waters,—I will claim thee, bright-ey'd Hope.
But hence, Delusion, with thy harlot smile,
Charming deceitful as the viper's eye,
Thou earth-born progeny of Idleness,
That wear'st the azure livery of Hope.
Lo, thou hast revell'd in the blood of millions,
Yet ever thirstest greedily for more:
Thou art that star to which the pilgrim trusts
In fond anticipation of repose
On the warm breast of hospitality,
But, trusting, sinks into the deep morass,
And sees thee, as he struggles hard with Death,
Still beaming on him, faithful in deceit.
Charming deceitful as the viper's eye,
Thou earth-born progeny of Idleness,
That wear'st the azure livery of Hope.
Lo, thou hast revell'd in the blood of millions,
Yet ever thirstest greedily for more:
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In fond anticipation of repose
On the warm breast of hospitality,
But, trusting, sinks into the deep morass,
And sees thee, as he struggles hard with Death,
Still beaming on him, faithful in deceit.
— Mine be the hope,—that fears to lean upon
Aught but the arm of Faith, by him alone
Supported, and supporting equally!
That lightly treads the roses, as they spring
Beneath her feet, the blushing flow'rs of Love;
Which, as she stops a moment to anoint
With their soft balm the bleeding feet of Faith,
Shoot up in wild luxuriance above
Her flaxen tresses, weaving in with them.
Mine be the hope, that 'mid the night of life
Shines as a cheering beacon thro' the gloom,
'Till merg'd in full Fruition's blaze of glory!
Aught but the arm of Faith, by him alone
Supported, and supporting equally!
That lightly treads the roses, as they spring
Beneath her feet, the blushing flow'rs of Love;
Which, as she stops a moment to anoint
With their soft balm the bleeding feet of Faith,
Shoot up in wild luxuriance above
Her flaxen tresses, weaving in with them.
Mine be the hope, that 'mid the night of life
Shines as a cheering beacon thro' the gloom,
'Till merg'd in full Fruition's blaze of glory!
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