XII. HOPE.
I
How much they wrong thee, gentle Hope! who say
That thou art light of heart, and bright of eye!
Ah! no,—thou wert not hope, if thou wert gay:
She hath no part with idle gaiety!
II
The gay think only of the passing hour,
And the light mirth the flying moments yield;
But thou dost come when days of darkness lower,
And with the future dost the present gild.
III
Yes; thou, sweet Power! art Grief's twin-sister, given
To walk with her the weary world around,
Scattering, like dew, the fragrant balm of heaven,
Where she hath left her freshly bleeding wound.
IV
Oh! often have I pictured thee in dreams,
For thou wert always very dear to me;
And never was I sad but sunny gleams
Have visited my drooping heart from thee.
V
Yet words can scarce portray thy lovely face,
As it hath shone on me at dead of night,
Wreathed with a smile of calm and serious grace,
Chaste as the moon's, as pensive, and as bright.
VI
When pity for the grief we would beguile,
And the glad thought that we can render aid,
Strive in the heart, and blend into a smile,
'Tis thou that makest sunshine out of shade.
VII
And on thy brow there sits eternally
A look of deep, yet somewhat anxious bliss,
With a wild light that nestles in thine eye,
As though its home were not a world like this.
