HOPE.

What a syren is Hope — what a charming deceiver!

She whispers so blandly you can but believe her;

The garments of Truth and of Reason she stealeth

And every deformity thus she concealeth.

When down in the valley I'm talking with Sorrow

She comes with a song — all its burden to-morrow;

She mocks my companion....

Then she beckons me up to the top of a mountain;

She brings me a draught from a clear, sparkling fountain,

And talks of the beautiful prospect before us

Till ere I'm aware, the dark night settles o'er us.

Sometimes in my anger I try to elude her;

I call her a jade and an idle intruder;

But she kisses, caresses, and coaxes, and flatters

Till I build me a castle the next zephyr shatters.

When I firmly resolve I will listen no longer,

Than my will or my reason somehow she is stronger:

I chide her, deride her, despise her and doubt her,

And yet it is true I can n't live without her!