Men often speak and dream in hope
Of happier days in store;
And toward th' ideal goal they grope,
And dream and hope the more.
The world grows old and young again,
And man goes hoping on in vain.

Hope is a witness at his birth,
It flutters round his early bloom,
Its magic clothes his youth with mirth,
Nor quits the greybeard in his tomb,
Life's troubles o'er, we still enthrone
Hope over his memorial stone.

It is no vain deluding thought
Which from disordered fancy springs.
By hope our hearts are plainly taught
That we are born for better things.
That inward voice if we believe,
The hoping soul will not deceive.