Hope

[From the German of Schiller.]

Men talk and dream of better days-- Of a golden time to come; Toward a happy and shining goal They run with a ceaseless hum. The world grows old and grows young again, Still hope of the better is bright to men.

Hope leads us in at the gate of life; She crowns the boyish head; Her bright lamp lures the stalwart youth, Nor burns out with the gray-haired dead; For the grave closes over his trouble and care, But see--on the grave--Hope is planted there!

'Tis not an empty and flattering deceit, Begot in a foolish brain; For the heart speaks loud with its ceaseless throbs, "We are not born in vain"; And the words that out of the heart-throbs roll, They cannot deceive the hoping soul.