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!