BETA

Hope.

Tis dead of night : thick clouds obscure the sky ;1
Loud roar the winds across the wintry plain ;2
Against the mountain beats the dashing rain ;3
Woe to the traveller if no cot be nigh ! —4
Now gaze above ! —lo ! through the opening gloom,5
That like a funeral pall o’er nature spreads,6
A little star its trembling lustre sheds ;7
It seems a lamp dim-burning in a tomb ;8
It silvers o’er the haggard brow of night,9
With watery beam illumes the howling wood,10
And chases horror from the dashing flood.—11
Thus, mid life’s gloomiest scenes, Hope sheds her
light ;
12
Let ills surround us, or let cares oppress,13
Still she appears, and points to happiness.14