Volume 5 — HOPE.

1. The lark whose morning song is gay, At evening hath a pensive lay. The thrush that caroll’d blithe at morn, Sits silent now in yonder thorn. But evening hath no frown for me; No spectres in its gloom I see— For hope, fond hope, looks thro’ the night, And finds beyond its worlds of light. 2. Then let the sun go deeply down, And evening o’er the landscape frown— My thoughts on wings of hope shall rise To yon fair orbs beyond the skies. And if, awhile, we tread the glade Where clouds and darkness cast their shade, Yet here—e’en here—hope’s wizard wand Shall stud the gloom with stars beyond.