Kind guardian of the Lonely Shore,
And Sorrow's true and only friend,
Comforting angel of the poor—
What heavenly spirit did descend
With passive voice, with ways unknown,
Within thy very self complete?
O Hope, when left at last alone
We fall a suppliant at thy feet
And worship there, with heart forlorn
From childhood's land of make-believe,
Through early youth, the brightening morn,
Till tottering age, the fading eve.

And who could walk without thee, friend?
Who walk dim paths without thy hand?
From out the world shouldst thou ascend
Blind Poverty would stalk the land;
Despair would seize some simple knave
And Hatred every evil one,—
O Hope, for more would seek the grave
Without thy timely vision shown:—
The sick upon the lowly bed;
The blind a-begging as of yore;
The weeping child who works unfed;
The prisoner by the fatal door,
All, led along, still cling below
To feel thy subtle charms so free,
As wearily, drearily on they go,
Following, following after thee.

And when upon Life's field they fall,
When Disappointment reigns supreme,
Thy voice, omnipotent, would call
E'en from the dust their fondest dream;
Would call and wake the slumbering thought,
And point it to some great ideal
While adding all, but taking naught
From out the present, living real.
Then, Hope, thou sentinel of light
By Disappointment's lonely shore,
Speak out amid the depth of night
And guide us safely evermore.

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