The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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HOPE. |
 | HOPE. The legendary |  |
201
HOPE.
BY WILLIAM GRIGG, M. D.
Hope is the bird that we fondly chase
Through the day from early dawn;
When night has come and we 're sure of him,
We grasp, but the bird has gone.
So when the lake on its surface shows
The bubble some spell has woke,
We endeavour to dip up the fairy shell,
But alas! the bubble is broke.
The simple child as he strives to grasp
The sunbeam upon the wall,
Is astonished to find that the light is gone,
Unknowing he shades its fall.
Just so with man;—for the bird of hope
He follows, though still it flies,
The bubble he breaks, and the light he shades,
And when they vanish, he dies.
But hopes that spring in the lover's heart,
When dreams of misery lower,
Beam bright on his soul as the glaring light
That breaks through the summer shower—
And dear to him is their hallowed smile
As the holy rays that shine
On the flower that 's doomed through the chilling storm,
For that nourishing light to pine.
In their welcome glow the future seems
Arrayed in her best attire,
And his ear is filled with the rapturous sound
She flings from her golden lyre.
Alas! should the blissful spell be broke
And those hopes be quenched in tears,
Through the day from early dawn;
When night has come and we 're sure of him,
We grasp, but the bird has gone.
So when the lake on its surface shows
The bubble some spell has woke,
We endeavour to dip up the fairy shell,
But alas! the bubble is broke.
The simple child as he strives to grasp
The sunbeam upon the wall,
Is astonished to find that the light is gone,
Unknowing he shades its fall.
Just so with man;—for the bird of hope
He follows, though still it flies,
The bubble he breaks, and the light he shades,
And when they vanish, he dies.
But hopes that spring in the lover's heart,
When dreams of misery lower,
Beam bright on his soul as the glaring light
That breaks through the summer shower—
And dear to him is their hallowed smile
As the holy rays that shine
On the flower that 's doomed through the chilling storm,
For that nourishing light to pine.
In their welcome glow the future seems
Arrayed in her best attire,
And his ear is filled with the rapturous sound
She flings from her golden lyre.
Alas! should the blissful spell be broke
And those hopes be quenched in tears,
202
Oh! never again will their brightness shine
As in scenes of early years.
The soldier's hope is the down that 's borne
On the breeze from spray to spray,
Though wooing the hand and eluding the grasp,
Still taking its flight away,
Till the soldier sees the brittle thread
Connecting success with power,
When the monarch resolves that the free born soul
At his footstool's base shall cower;
But the down will sport on freedom's breeze,
And float o'er liberty's shore,
Until, wet with the gush of the hireling's blood,
It can skim the breeze no more;
And when on the earth it quiet lies,
Where slumber the freeborn brave,
It is dearer by far to the soldier's eye,
Than the gem that decks the slave.
The scholar's hope is the praise that comes
From the lips of his fellow men,
Until Echo has whispered from distant climes,
The enchanting sound again;
That voice is heard, and his bosom heaves
With pleasures unknown before;
But that voice will be hushed, and Echo die,
And tell of that praise no more;
And the richest wreath that art can weave
O'er the scholar's furrowed brow,
Will let fall its leaves when the wintry winds
Shall wither hope's verdant bough;
But Time shall gaze on the scholar's book,
And shall read the scholar's name,
And he will decide if that word be writ
On the scroll of deathless fame.
As in scenes of early years.
The soldier's hope is the down that 's borne
On the breeze from spray to spray,
Though wooing the hand and eluding the grasp,
Still taking its flight away,
Till the soldier sees the brittle thread
Connecting success with power,
When the monarch resolves that the free born soul
At his footstool's base shall cower;
But the down will sport on freedom's breeze,
And float o'er liberty's shore,
Until, wet with the gush of the hireling's blood,
It can skim the breeze no more;
And when on the earth it quiet lies,
Where slumber the freeborn brave,
It is dearer by far to the soldier's eye,
Than the gem that decks the slave.
The scholar's hope is the praise that comes
From the lips of his fellow men,
Until Echo has whispered from distant climes,
The enchanting sound again;
That voice is heard, and his bosom heaves
With pleasures unknown before;
But that voice will be hushed, and Echo die,
And tell of that praise no more;
And the richest wreath that art can weave
O'er the scholar's furrowed brow,
Will let fall its leaves when the wintry winds
Shall wither hope's verdant bough;
But Time shall gaze on the scholar's book,
And shall read the scholar's name,
And he will decide if that word be writ
On the scroll of deathless fame.
| HOPE. The legendary | |