[We have no clue to the time when this was written. It is imperfect: the second verse is not complete in the copy. But is it not true to life so far as earthly hope is concerned? Of "the hope of the gospel" our songstress would speak differently.]

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't live without her!