A Meditation

In every season, every change of life, To give that zest which she can only give, Hope must preside incessant. Poverty, With all her train of ills;—th’ unerring grasp Of grief and sickness;—thy soul-wasting powers, Pale-ey’d Captivity! without the aid, Cordial and sweet, of that associate mild, Who could support? Not e’en the happiest lot Here, in these low abodes of sin and care, Sustains her absence gladly.—Not the gifts Shower’d in the year’s luxuriance; nor yet those Shook on all sides from Fortune’s golden wheel, Might satisfy the soul, did not young Hope Stretch o’er the onward scene her potent wand, And give them brighter colouring. Thus all The vapid present yields, in its best mood, Leaves the sick heart unsatisfied;—but thou, Enchantress, blest of mission, canst sustain, Canst animate, and on the vermeil dawn, The white effulgent noon, and golden eve, Of bloomy Summer, shed ideal light, Which more than crowns their beauty. Thou canst lift With rosy hand, the veils of time, and pledge To youth the flowers of love;—to manhood point The paths of wealth and glory;—to worn age The downy couch, warm hearth, and social friend. But far beyond all these, sustain’d by faith, Thou canst extend the Heav’n-illumin’d torch Gilding the grave; and, past its darksome bourne, Disclosing the fair realms of joy and love Where Night and Winter never come;—nor pain, Nor dread of change;—but one celestial Morn Purples th’ Immortal Year; and one bright Spring Of gratitude and bliss exhaustless flows Thro’ the redeem’d, emancipated soul.