  Hope on the cradled infant smiles, And plays round the frolicksome boy; The youth with her magical enchantment beguiles, Nor can age her power destroy; For when in death at last he lies, Hope sits on the grave and points to the skies. Nor is this the fair dream, unsubstantial and vain, Of a head with wild fancies elate; The heart from within echoes loudly again, 'We are born for a happier state:' And what that voice would bid us believe, The hoping soul will never deceive! |
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